


Something More

by seherrons



Series: The Epitome of Humanity (Geralt x Regis) [3]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Book spoilers for those who haven't read the books, Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Canonical Character Death, Developing Relationship, Eventual Smut, Friends to Lovers, Friendship/Love, Kissing, M/M, Rewrite of canon events from Baptism of Fire and Lady of the Lake, Sad Ending, Sexual Content, Swearing, Trust, Violence, and even though it's technically a rewrite I've still left a few things as they were from the books, but I've still tried to change things up and add stuff where necessary, mainly towards the end of the fic, occasional use of game dialogue too because I thought it fit in here reasonably ok
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-10-28
Packaged: 2020-05-28 18:02:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 103,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19399474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seherrons/pseuds/seherrons
Summary: “Now what could Geralt of Rivia prefer to keep to himself?”Geralt smiled, his lips stretching into an ugly sneer as he cast a glance back over his shoulder.“A lot of things, Regis. If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll find out one day.”It has been a hard journey for Geralt and his companions, their patience and tempers stretched thin under the crushing weight of their search for Ciri. But when they chance upon a mysterious barber-surgeon that one fateful night in the barrows of Fen Carn, the man's unexpectedly altruistic intention to help them on their path gives Geralt pause. He finds himself wondering about this curious character - just who, or what, is he?What neither he nor Emiel Regis counted on, however, was how a simple show of trust could lead to something more - and something they had both desperately needed, despite the cost.This fic is a rewrite of chapters 3, 4 and 5 of Baptism of Fire and chapter 9 of Lady of the Lake by Andrzej Sapkowski.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I started working on this fic as a side project a couple of years ago back when I was in the middle of writing [The Vagabonds](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11618427). I ultimately ended up abandoning this story but in recent months I've managed to get the drive back to finish it off, so here it is! As mentioned in the tags and the summary it's a rewrite of certain canon events that take place in the books, so if you haven't read Baptism of Fire and/or Lady of the Lake, I'm not entirely sure how much sense this will make. 
> 
> All credit for characters, story and The Witcher universe goes to Andrzej Sapkowski :) I hope you enjoy!

**“… Right, that’s done. Geralt, I’m all yours.”**

**He stood and the Witcher brought the sword up against his throat, as quick as lightning.**

**“Move away,” he snapped at Milva. Regis didn’t twitch, even though the point of the sword was pressing gently against his neck. The archer held her breath, seeing the barber-surgeon’s eyes glowing in the dark with a strange, cat-like light.**

**“Go on,” Regis said calmly. “Thrust it in.”**

**\- Andrzej Sapkowski (translated by David French), _Baptism of Fire_ , page 218**

*****

They hadn't planned on venturing to Fen Carn at first. It was necessity that had brought them there, the witcher Geralt and his company. They were tired, injured, and hungry beyond all measure, and in desperate need of a rest to stop and reevaluate where their road should now take them. And the closer they approached the silent mist-covered plains, the quicker it became clear that they would not find the respite they so desperately sought.

Yet fate, as it turned out, had seemed to shine most fortuitously upon the ragtag group that stumbled onto the barrows that night; the horses snorted and nickered peacefully as they bowed their heads and feasted upon the grass by the rocks, and the sound of laughter shrilled clearly from inside the walls of the cottage that was nestled neatly in the clearing by the graveyard. The moon had steadily risen and deigned to peek its silvery head above the thick clouds that coursed across the sky, and the resulting glow upon the barren landscape was one that could almost be considered eerie in that otherwise silent place. But this was paid no mind, for the warmth and the cheer in that small cabin was enough to alleviate any further worries those weary travellers may have had in mind.

The barber-surgeon was a remarkably mysterious character, one who had indeed inspired many a feeling of wariness and distrust among those gathered when they had first met him hiding amongst the graves of Fen Carn. Dressed in black sweeping robes and carrying a satchel slung round his waist, it was difficult not to look at the man and feel taken aback – especially by the paleness of his skin and his striking grey hair that hung loosely past his shoulders.

It was clear, though, that he was truthful in his words and noble in his intentions, for though he sensed their distrust and saw the weapons they carried, he did not falter in his offer of hospitality and instead freely offered up his cabin to them for the night. Such an offer was greatly welcomed, and it wasn't lost on Geralt how the alluring sight of freshly distilled moonshine in those lodgings was eagerly eyed off by his weary friends.

So it was that mandrake hooch was imbibed, and Geralt found himself caught up in the whirlwind of conversation that followed; tongues loosened under the alcohol, and in those few hours he learned that Emiel Regis was a man sharp of mind and wit, and made for a fascinating conversation partner as he sat back, smiled through pursed lips, and listened to the poet Dandelion avidly recount their journeys since leaving the forests of Brokilon.

Geralt had had reservations about the man at first. He still did, but he couldn't deny that over the course of the lengthy discussion that followed, he appreciated how the man would listen attentively and ask questions that, though curious in nature, were not invasive. He was observant, too. He'd seen how Geralt had avoided speaking at length on any number of the topics covered, and so he was quick to steer the conversation away from any talk of Ciri. Dandelion had been visibly put out at being denied the opportunity to speak further on that subject, that much was clear to see, but Geralt was left intrigued. Intrigued and grudgingly thankful for the tact the barber-surgeon displayed whenever he addressed him and smiled. 

As the night went on, Geralt felt the warmth of the spirit settle in his belly and his throat tingled with the pleasant burn of good, strong booze. It became a little easier then to enjoy the night. It was good to finally have this chance to relax, and what's more to learn a little more about the company he'd been travelling with the past few weeks. As more tales were swapped, the sweetness of the alcohol caressed his tongue and he smacked his lips and drank again from the flask that was passed back to him; this time Dandelion had spilt a trail along the side of the earthen mug as he sluggishly thrust it out to his friend. Geralt cast him a withering glare, one that was completely ignored by the poet whose cheeks had turned a reddened hue with the onset of drunkenness, and the witcher sighed as he settled himself back further by the wall he was leaning against. He winced and swore under his breath at the fresh stab of raw pain in his knee as he shifted again.

He felt eyes on him and he turned to see Regis gazing at him, concern clear in his black eyes. Geralt – or rather Dandelion – had told him earlier how he had received those injuries to his leg, courtesy of Vilgefortz, and it was remarkable how Regis had seemingly already gathered as much just from one single glance at the witcher and a brief comment about the way he'd been favouring his left leg over the course of the evening. He was correct in his assessment that the wound was magical in nature, just as he demonstrated remarkable understanding of the way the dryads of Brokilon had mended as much of the flesh as they were able to whilst Geralt had taken refuge there. Geralt had been impressed, visibly so, and when he saw the fleeting glow of pride in the man’s eyes at the witcher’s praise of his observations, Geralt found he had taken a certain liking to him. His intelligence was admirable, and there was a keen understanding in his dark gaze as if he carried a century’s worth of knowledge inside his head – perhaps even more. He certainly looked the part of an aged wanderer, a scholar, a lonely drifter tucked far away in the solitary corners of society. Geralt knew that life well and respected it, and he made no attempts to hide the budding feeling of kinship that grew alongside the pleasant haze of alcohol in his head. 

It certainly made Regis more delightful to talk to than Dandelion when he was half-slurred and half-asleep over a bottle of mandrake, that was for certain. Geralt watched Milva nudge the bard sharply in the elbow when he’d nodded his head, almost on the verge of slumping over, and Geralt couldn’t hold back the smirk on his lips when Dandelion jumped and almost knocked the mug to the ground in his hurry to pass the archer her fill.

All the while those eyes continued to fix on him.

“Are you well?”

Geralt could hear the hesitance in the man’s voice and he grunted as he turned his head to gaze once more at the barber-surgeon, who was seated across from him on one of the spare wooden chairs that had been moved by the fireplace when they had first entered his humble lodgings. The others – Zoltan, Milva, Percival and Dandelion – were by now so far gone in their various stages of intoxication that neither needed to worry about keeping their voices low; again something that Geralt was thankful for that night.

He drew his arms over his chest, crossing them as he leant further back against the wall.

“Been better.” He wasn't up for discussing it right now. He'd already asked Regis earlier on if he could spare him anything to help deal with the pain. Regis had looked solemn and admitted that he could not – because what Geralt wanted to treat hadn't so much been the pain associated with his leg, but rather the pain of an altogether different kind of injury. That injury, Geralt knew, was the metaphorical kind; he'd been thinking too much lately, and he wanted it to stop. Ever since Thanedd his head had been hurting under the weight of the thoughts and regrets and anger he'd had plaguing him. Geralt had only wanted to drink that night, and that was all. It still intrigued him how Regis had been so quick to pick up on that – and how he'd passed Geralt the flask first before giving it to anyone else. 

Regis smiled faintly. 

“I don't doubt it. Sadly, alcohol – though a blissful reprieve to begin with – cannot soothe all the aches. Believe me, I’ve tried.”

Geralt arched a brow, his interest piqued.

“Speaking from personal experience? Don’t look the type to me.”

“Of a sort, yes. You would be surprised,” the barber-surgeon answered, and Geralt noted another pursed smile stretching across his thin lips. He studied him a moment, merely eyeing the man as he sat and waited expectantly for a reply from the witcher, his black eyes calm and focused and his pale face warm and rose hued from the light of the fireplace behind him. His hair shrouded his cheeks, making his gaunt appearance seem healthier, fuller. Geralt shrugged.

“At this point I don’t think anything’d surprise me anymore.”

Regis cocked his head, affixing the witcher with a curious gaze. 

“Interesting…”

“How?”

“You are a witcher, are you not? I was under the assumption that one must be prepared to expect the unexpected in any event whilst travelling on the Path.”

The corner of Geralt’s lip twitched upwards and he grabbed the flask of mandrake that was sluggishly handed to him by Zoltan, the dwarf yawning and muttering something incoherently as he did so.

“True. But given that everything’s gone downhill tonight, I don’t think I’d have to worry about that anymore. No offence, Emiel Regis – you’re a damn good host, but drinking booze in a cabin in a graveyard with a complete stranger was the last thing on my mind this evening. So no. I wouldn't be surprised. That quota's already been filled for the night.”

He did not expect the slight parting of the man’s lips, Regis’ smile widening ever so faintly. His eyes crinkled at the corners, crow’s feet cutting into his pale skin which accentuated his wizened features.

“Then I shall do my best to not appear as such a complete stranger by the night's end,” the barber-surgeon chuckled. “And please, simply ‘Regis’ is adequate enough.”

Geralt took a swig of mandrake, nodded, and threw the near-empty flask to Percival, who caught it with surprising agility. 

It was with a light heart that Geralt then took a seat in the chair he was standing next to, something he had been avoiding doing all night with the twinge in his knee up until that moment. The booze had finally dulled the pain enough for him to ignore it, and he found himself even bothering to listen to Dandelion’s inane slurred prattling for once.

As it was, he could already feel the seductive pull of sleep, his eyes battling against the effort to stay sharp, stay focused. He fell silent as the conversations continued, Geralt only barely paying attention to the questions Regis was asking his friends about their journeys and the paths they would attempt to take to reach Nilfgaard. Despite the fatigue that loomed ever closer upon him and enshrouded him in its warm hold, Geralt was equally pleased to see that the man was well-versed in matters of the current state of the war in the nearby territories, having been exposed to such knowledge first-hand from the patients he treated in the nearby village of Dillingen.

There came a time, however, when the alcohol had at last caught up to him, and Geralt needed to excuse himself from the gathered company to see to some needs of a more private nature; he was quickly stopped by Dandelion who had stumbled upwards on unsteady feet as soon as he saw the witcher walk away.

“Geralt? Where’re you going?”

Geralt eyed him stiffly.

“Out.”

Dandelion blinked, and it was clear he was having trouble focusing on him. Geralt sighed.

“Let me piss in peace, Dandelion. Grab Milva if you need someone to babysit you while I’m gone.” It took a moment for his words to register in the inebriated bard’s mind, but he was pleased to see the truly affronted look on Dandelion’s face after he’d at last worked his head around the gruff warning the witcher had given him.

“Fine.” He slumped back against the floor. Without waiting for a further answer and without giving anyone else any further opportunity to question him, Geralt reached out, pulled on the door handle and left.

*****

The air was bitterly cold as he ambled out into the night, and Geralt felt the frigid chill slam into his body with full force. He could hear the horses snorting and stamping their hooves upon the ground by the makeshift stables, and as he passed Roach he soothed his restless mare with a quick pat to the neck.

He sighed in satisfaction when he found a secluded spot in the copse of trees to relieve himself, and it was then that as he prepared to make his way back he stopped by the edge of the woods that this small, unassuming cottage bordered.

The night was quiet. Perhaps too quiet. The silence was deafening now that he focused on it, free from the noisome air of the cabin and the thick herbal smell that permeated each and every brick and wall from Regis’ various concoctions and remedies. He felt the icy bite of the air refresh his weary limbs, rejuvenate his mind and sharpen his senses to a fine point. He groaned softly, running a hand through his hair and using the time afforded him to rest against the nearby fence, leaning his arms over the wooden railings as he gazed upon the stillness of the fields before him.

The moonlight glinted off the mounds of the barrows in the near distance, headstones and uneven hillocks casting ominous shadows upon the deadened, dry grass that grew there. It was comforting in a way – unlike so many other places of the like he had encountered on his many years on the Path, he saw that the graves remained untouched. It was clear that something kept the necrophages away. He didn’t know who or what it was, but he was thankful at the chance to lay his sword down. Not even a whisper of a howl in the night could be heard above the slow cawing of ravens in the treetops.

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, tasting the earthen scent of the grass upon his tongue as his lungs swelled and his booze-addled thoughts righted themselves. It had been twelve days since he had set out from Brokilon, the pain in his leg having proven an effective indicator of each day that passed. The pain seemed to only worsen each morning, and with it, Geralt’s thoughts grew increasingly darker: it had been twelve days since he had set off to find Ciri and bring her back from Nilfgaard.

He shook his head, sighing.

He didn’t let the anger claim him, nor the rising desperation strangle him until he couldn’t breathe. He’d had plenty of time for that already, and he’d made sure to vent out each and every stab of rage and frustration that tore at him with each monster he slaughtered as they traversed the wild, rugged no man’s land that had since comprised their journey out of the dryads’ forest. Milva and Dandelion had recently taken it upon themselves to make comment many a time that they needn’t worry about running into any soldiers along the way – Geralt’s sword had slain more lives in twelve days than there were people in either the Nilfgaardian or Northern Realms’ armies. He hadn’t received the joke well, and his foul mood had lasted until this very evening.

He swallowed and he felt a dryness on his tongue. He wondered if any of that mandrake was left to slake his thirst, but knowing the others, there wouldn’t be. With a wry chuckle he found himself thinking back to Regis’ earlier words: _“I’m not certain that you’re treating the right illness. I’d also like to remind you that one should treat causes, not symptoms.”_

He smiled then, his lips pulling tightly together the more his thirst raged.

He had to disagree with the barber-surgeon, despite his well-meaning intentions. He understood the concern, of course he did, but sometimes a good bottle of something stiff was all that was needed to lose himself in his head and cloud his thoughts, of which he’d had far too many as of late. If he could stop that roar in his brain, that incessant cascade of annoyance and desperation at the world and Ciri’s plight, then for five minutes he would gladly drown himself in spirits to ease the headache that built up behind his eyes.

Inwardly he wondered at what Vesemir would have to say to him right now if he saw him dulling his senses in such a meaningless, frivolous way. He was a witcher, the old man would chide, not a common dockworker who lived by the bottle for lack of anything else worth living for. He also wondered what Vesemir would have to say if Geralt informed him that oftentimes alcohol was the only thing that worked, because gods knew he'd tried almost everything else. 

Geralt shifted where he stood, his eyes darkening.

“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath. _I have to get out of here._

He would be moving at first light. Too much time had been spent idling here as it was – if he kept up at this pace he wouldn’t reach Nilfgaard’s towers until the next year, at the turn of spring at the very least. He ground his teeth.

The headache was coming back.

“What I’d give to have a damned break right about now.”

“I believe I can help you with that.”

Geralt’s head snapped up and he turned, finding himself facing the barber-surgeon who had silently approached. So silently, in fact, that even Geralt hadn't picked up on his footsteps. He eyed the man warily, darting his eyes first from the expectant expression upon his pale face, and then to the shack behind him in the near distance which was illuminated by the candles lit at the windowsills. From where he was standing he could only barely hear the others conversing drunkenly, otherwise altogether unaware of the absence of both the witcher and their host.

Movement caught Geralt’s eye and he glanced down, seeing a small bottle held in Regis’ long-fingered grasp. He felt the dryness on his tongue again and arched a brow.

“It’s only water, I’m afraid,” Regis announced, offering an amused smile as he extended the bottle to Geralt, who took it after a moment with an audible grunt of thanks. “I daresay you need it.”

“I'm not an alcoholic,” Geralt retorted, throwing his head back as he downed one large swig after another of the cold, fresh water. He groaned, glad to feel the thirst quenched if only for a small while.

He saw Regis draw up beside him, the barber-surgeon joining the witcher in leaning upon the gate’s railing. That same smile continued to pull at his lips.

“I never said you were. However, I think I should bring it to your attention that your companions have cleared out my distillate rather admirably.” 

Geralt scoffed, taking another swig of water and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Not surprising.” He looked at Regis again, his eyes narrowing in thought. He then held the bottle out, offering it to the man. “Here. If you don’t drink your own booze, you may as well drink your own damn water.”

The barber-surgeon chuckled, taking the bottle and lifting it in a mock toast to the witcher before raising it to his lips and drinking his fill. As he did so, Geralt lapsed into momentary silence again, turning to the side to better observe his newfound acquaintance.

A curious man indeed, there was something about him that Geralt could not place. He appeared by all intents and purposes to be who he claimed: a surgeon who valued his privacy and worked in the village, and who returned at night to this cabin where he gathered fresh supplies for his salves and medicines. But despite all this, there was something that still gave Geralt pause, something that still made him feel as if he should weigh his options should the worst come to worst. He'd lived long enough to know that he should never take anything – or anyone – at face value. 

He knew that Regis was well aware of his being watched, and to his credit he did not falter under Geralt’s scrutinising stare. Instead Geralt was of the impression that the man was simply waiting, as if certain that sooner or later the witcher would ask him something that the barber-surgeon had been fearing, or hoping to avoid.

It spiked Geralt’s interest, but he was not so easily fooled; as he had been told time and time again throughout his youth, a witcher must always allow the opportunity to come to him. One never survived long on the Path by acting with haste, or without first gathering all the facts. So that is what he would do. And if it appeared that he had been wrong, then he would swallow his pride and apologise. Geralt almost smiled again; he really did have far too much to drink that night, it seemed.

The barber-surgeon lowered the flask from his lips, and in the faint glow from the moonlight above Geralt saw Regis’ profile momentarily hidden from view as a gentle gust of wind stirred the air, brushing his hair past his cheeks.

“Any reason why you’re out here?”

Regis turned his head, arching a brow at Geralt’s sudden inquiry.

“Am I not allowed to be? I seem to recall owning this property.”

Geralt’s lips quirked. Regis passed the bottle back to Geralt, who took it and drained off another pull of it.

“Didn’t mean it like that.”

Regis smiled.

“I'm aware. Forgive me, I couldn’t help myself.” He turned back to face the barrows and the rolling hills before them, visibly pausing a moment as if gathering his thoughts. “I wanted to speak with you, Geralt – if you don’t mind my doing so, of course. It’s difficult to maintain a steady conversation with people who's words have become slurred to almost complete incomprehension.” He looked at the witcher from the corner of his eye, his lips twitching. “And as you are no doubt well aware by now, I do so love to talk.”

Geralt stared at him, feeling a wider smirk threaten to tug on his lips. He fought against it, however, and nodded curtly.

“I noticed. Well then, barber-surgeon, care to tell me why you bother to live out here? Why you _really_ bother to live out in the middle of a graveyard? Or why you’re suddenly so dead set on becoming involved with our affairs and offering us your hospitality? I don’t mean to pry but you’re a smart guy, Regis. I feel like you’d understand my caution.”

Regis was silent a moment, an unreadable expression crossing his eyes at the cool tone of Geralt’s words. He tapped a hand idly against the railing of the gate he leant against, his sharp nails scratching into the chipped woodwork. His lips pursed again. 

“Three very good questions,” he said at length. “Why indeed?”

“Wouldn’t be asking if I knew.”

The barber-surgeon uttered a short laugh.

“I live here, Geralt, because it suits me. I sense that you have trouble believing me when I say it's because of my valued privacy, but that is the exact reason why – nothing more, nothing less. I only wish it could be for something more exciting, but I've had my fair share of excitement in the past when I lived closer to settlements and other villages. Alas, those are minor details of my youth and of a time which I care not to discuss any further at present.”

Geralt straightened himself and leant his back against the gate. 

“Just for privacy? Really? I can understand wanting some peace and quiet, but there’s not many I know of who’d choose to retire to a barrow for it.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Not unless they’re hiding something.” He eyed the man coolly.

Regis, again to his credit, remained unperturbed. But Geralt knew that Regis did not miss the insinuation in his words; the barber-surgeon nodded, taking back the bottle passed to him and using the few moments granted to him as he drank again to carefully gauge his reply.

“Everyone hides something, witcher. It’s human nature, is it not?” His black eyes centred in on Geralt’s, studying his golden irises which reflected faintly in the darkness. Geralt smiled.

“It’s nature. Doesn’t have to be human.”

“I shall keep that in mind.”

Geralt’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully and he ran his eyes once more over the man standing before him. His curiosity was tugging at him now, threatening to eat him whole. There was more to this man than his humble appearance and well-crafted words. Much more. Out of instinct, he focused on the weight of his medallion that sat round his neck, glinting in the moonlight where it hung over the straps and buckles of his leather jacket. Nothing. Not a tremble, not a single sign that hinted at anything out of the ordinary.

If this man was a doppler, he would know. If this man was a sorcerer, he would know. If he was _anything_ other than what he claimed, he would know.

But he didn’t.

And this was what fascinated him.

“Still haven’t answered my other question,” Geralt said after a moment. “Why’re you helping us?”

Regis nodded, as if more to himself than Geralt – like the witcher’s question was exactly what he had been expecting to hear next.

“Because it is the right thing to do.”

Geralt blinked, momentarily taken aback.

“What?”

Regis sighed and turned to face him fully, strands of grey locks again brushing past his cheeks and hiding his face in shadow.

“Your story is an interesting one. Hearing your friends’ recounts tonight… I realised that there is simply far more to this war than I had at first ever imagined. Listening to my patients and the refugees in Dillingen, I could not even begin to comprehend the sheer extent of the carnage that sweeps the land. But now at last I know. The roads are no longer safe. This very region upon which we stand is no longer safe. You have a caravan of women and children with you, and the journey you're on will be fraught with unimaginable dangers. I feel that my assistance would be needed here now more than ever – forgive me for saying so, but I don't see anyone among you who is better equipped to deal with illness and infection.”

“A fair point,” Geralt said quietly. “I’m surprised they’ve lasted this long already.”

“You see? We do not live in a world fit for those who cannot defend themselves. It is the cruellest reality, and one that we must work to change. Therefore, I will bring my supplies with me and offer my services on your travels. I wish to accompany you when you venture forth on the morrow.”

Geralt was quiet for a long time, running the barber-surgeon’s words over in his mind. All the while he watched him, searching those black eyes for any trace, any hint of doubt, any kind of sign that his words were untrue and his intentions were false. He found none of that, but what he _did_ find was a determination that burned from deep within. He recognised the look immediately: it was the same determination that drove him ever onwards on the Path, the same dogged need to move forwards against all odds, against all ridicule and against the constant threat of death that danced with him intimately at every corner. And it was the same determination that kept him going even now, when Ciri was out of reach and another land away.

He smiled so faintly that his lips barely moved.

His medallion continued to lay unmoving at his breast.

_Maybe I was wrong._

He saw Regis’ eyes drop down to that fashioned wolf’s head hanging from his neck, as if he somehow knew the source of Geralt’s current train of thought. The man regarded it carefully, pensively. Then he continued.

“And if I can also offer any aid in your search for your Cirilla, or for Yennefer, then it would be the very least I could do.”

Geralt blinked. He'd not expected that, either. 

“You mean to tell me that you, a stranger, and a _surgeon_ at that, would willingly walk into danger to help me find two women who don't mean a damn thing to you?” His voice rose at the end of his sentence, incredulity gripping him in its hold. He shook his head. “Is everyone I meet insane?”

Regis smiled his pursed lipped smile.

“Not everyone,” he said quietly. “I can assure you of that.”

“I beg to differ,” Geralt growled. “Do you even know what you’re asking? No offence, but you don’t look like you’ve trained with a sword a day in your life. Stay here, barber-surgeon. Or stay with the women and children who need you to keep them clean and healthy. I’m not sending anyone out on a death wish.”

“That is inspiringly admirable of you, Geralt,” Regis answered softly. “And whilst I cannot speak for the others of your company, I can say that I'm indeed touched by the need for you to reinstate the importance of safety at all costs both to myself and to the others. I've never wielded a sword in my life, that much is true, and though I despise conflict in all forms I'm not entirely without the capabilities of defending myself should the need arise.”

“I would like to remind you,” he then continued after a moment when Geralt opened his mouth to retort – and here, his eyes sharpened, giving Geralt pause, “that appearances can indeed be deceiving. So do not assume to know me, witcher. If you are so curious about who I am, you need only ask.”

Geralt felt his breath suck sharply out of his lungs. He ran a palm across his face and exhaled through his fingers and swore under his breath, feeling a great displeasure settle over him. He was suddenly reminded of Yennefer’s uncannily aggravating ability to read his thoughts, and for one horrible, gut-wrenching minute he thought that perhaps she wasn’t the only one who was able to do so after all.

Before he could think on it further, his thoughts were waylaid by the slow understanding smile that tugged at the barber-surgeon’s lips. Ah. So he wasn't a mind reader. He was just too damn smart for his own good. Geralt respected that. Grudgingly. 

“It's in my nature to be observant, Geralt. I would not have lasted so long living here otherwise.” 

The tension built tighter in Geralt’s muscles as he gazed with distrusting eyes at the man.

“Yeah… starting to see that, now.”

Regis chuckled – a soft sound that was almost soothing in its warmth as it rumbled from his chest.

“I say we propose a trade.”

“What're you talking about?”

Regis held up a hand, silently indicating for Geralt to stay his place. When he looked again at the witcher, his expression was serious.

“Information for information. You wish to know about me, as you so rightly should. And I would very much like to sate my curiosity about you.”

“Why?” Geralt felt himself grow increasingly agitated; if there was one thing he loathed, it was cryptic comments and words and intentions that made no sense. So far Emiel Regis had been guilty of all three this night. He straightened himself up again, drawing up to his full height which he noted was not much taller than Regis’ own.

They held each other’s gazes, the two of them. It was Regis who broke the silence.

“One might call it a professional curiosity. But the truth, I must admit, is by far the easier to explain. Quite simply it is because you fascinate me.”

Geralt barked a short, gruff laugh.

“Gonna have to do much better than that,” he snarled. Regis shook his head, sighing and looking defeated. It made him appear frail, weakened in the moonlight that continued to illuminate the plains around them. Geralt found himself pausing again.

“I've heard of witchers and their lives on the Path. I've read stories and overhead tales of mutated men drawing swords and spells and slaying monsters for a paltry sum of coin which barely lasts them until the next village inn. They save villagers in need and work tirelessly in the face of death to do what is right by those who shun them the very moment their backs are turned, cursing them and all their ilk until the world dies around them.” Regis lifted his head, his eyes locking on Geralt’s once more. But this time, the look was different – and what Geralt saw in that gaze was something that he had never expected to see.

It was sympathy. Sympathy and an understanding that was so profound, so intense, that for a moment the witcher forgot his ire and simply stared.

“Your friends spoke highly of you and the weight you carry. What you do... it's a truly admirable goal, worthy of respect where it is not given. And so I find myself wondering if we're perhaps not as different as we might think, you and I,” Regis whispered.

Geralt nodded, letting the barber-surgeon’s words echo in his head. He scoffed.

“Nice to know. I was starting to feel lonely,” he sneered, yet his words had no real heat to them. Regis sighed again, shaking his head.

“I was being serious.”

“So was I. If you think you can somehow relate to me and everything I’ve been through, congratulations. But don’t go expecting me to cry and tell you my life story just because you’ve found someone to connect to. Everyone has something to hide – you said it yourself.”

Regis smiled thinly, nodding as if to himself. Seeing that he was not going to get any further response than that, Geralt turned, preparing to walk back to the cabin. The night air was chilling him to the bone and he wanted nothing more than to sleep. Their entire conversation had troubled him and tugged at something he'd rather not feel. 

He had not taken more than five steps before he was stopped by the sudden call behind him.

“Now what could Geralt of Rivia prefer to keep to himself?”

Geralt smiled, his lips stretching into an ugly sneer as he cast a glance back over his shoulder.

“A lot of things, Regis. If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll find out one day.”

Regis smiled softly when Geralt retreated, his form slowly fading into the shadow of the night as he strode towards the lone cottage nestled by the trees. Whether Geralt was aware of it or not, his eyes had told Regis a thousand things that his lips could not say. The barber-surgeon lowered his gaze, turning to glance once more upon the open fields and the rolling hillocks of the barrows. When he spoke again, he knew that Geralt could hear his whisper as it carried on the fresh gust of wind. 

“I look forward to it.”


	2. Chapter 2

They did not speak of it again that following morning, that conversation that they had had in the middle of the night with nothing but the cold night air to hear them. It suited Geralt just fine, for when he'd awoken from where he had fallen asleep with his head atop Milva’s lap, he felt the disappointing evidence that the mandrake hooch hadn't worked entirely as promised – because he still remembered everything, no matter how much he'd wanted the alcohol to help him forget. But now that he had had time to rest and reflect, he found himself regretting to some extent the harshness of his words the night before. Regis had meant well – perhaps too well – and Geralt could not deny that any further help they received on this seemingly helpless journey would be greatly welcomed.

They were well equipped to deal with a fight, that much was true, but when it came to level-headedness and a voice of reason, their company would snap, fall apart and break at the slightest provocation. Regis might just very well be the addition that their group badly needed; Geralt would never admit it aloud, but the man’s ability to remain steadfast, focused and humble was one he found both enviable and admirable.

He hadn’t said as much the night before but Geralt was also carefully observant, and he had relied on his ability to read and gain a good sense of a person’s character many a time before while travelling on the Path. It was how he had survived this long, just as Regis had. And it was how he knew what he did, and was able to feel so certain about this uncertain man; Regis may have done a good show of hiding it, but his eyes revealed what his mouth couldn’t – or wouldn’t – say. And Geralt remained fascinated with what he'd found. 

Geralt saw movement and the man in question walked past, standing silently from the chair he had just been occupying whilst the others slept in order to begin making his preparations for the journey. As if feeling Geralt’s eyes upon him the barber-surgeon turned his head, looking down to lock black eyes on gold.

Not a word was uttered, but Geralt felt he knew what the man was thinking. Their final conversation from last night played out once again in his head.

_"Now what could Geralt of Rivia prefer to keep to himself?"_

_"A lot of things, Regis. If you're lucky, maybe you'll find out one day."_

He'd heard Regis' parting words, too, just before he'd retired to the shack with the others: _"I look forward to it."_

Geralt gazed calmly at the man, as if challenging him. Regis would have to prove himself tenfold if he hoped to glean anything more from the witcher than what he was willing to show him. And Regis knew it, too: a thin smile pulled at his lips, one that Geralt returned. No more than a few seconds passed, but it was enough. 

The man then broke the gaze, Regis resuming his pacing towards the far wall of his cottage, wherein which he had stored various travelling bags and cloaks in a tidy little cabinet decorated with all manner of alchemical paraphernalia.

Geralt continued to watch him.

Perhaps they really _weren’t_ so different, after all.

The thought brought him a conflicting comfort; he still knew next to nothing about this man, his motives, his past. It was unlikely that Regis would merely tell him either, no matter how he may have encouraged Geralt to ask him about himself in the first place. Such conversations were built on trust, and Geralt didn't know if he could trust him yet. And something told him he wasn't alone in sharing those thoughts. 

No. He would have to wait and see.

Geralt stood, being careful not to rouse Milva who stirred faintly in her sleep, her eyes twitching as she grunted lowly at the loss of heat on her lap.

“Sleep well?”

Geralt arched a brow, dusting himself off and shooting a quick glance at the barber-surgeon as he made to locate his swords which he'd lain down upon the wooden flooring next to him the previous night. Geralt's search was brought to a halt when he saw a flash of silver out of the corner of his eye, and with mild surprise he nodded his thanks and accepted the familiar sheathed blades that Regis passed to him. For someone who claimed to have never held a sword in his life, Geralt was struck by the surety with which the man grasped them as he extended them out, hilts first, to the witcher. As he closed his hands around his weapons Geralt saw the barest twitch of Regis’ lips, amusement dancing in his eyes. He knew well what the witcher was thinking. Geralt sighed.

“Better than the last couple of nights,” he said quietly, careful enough to not raise his voice so he wouldn't wake the others. “More than I can say for you. Don’t look like you’ve slept in years.”

“Sleep comes sparingly to me these days,” Regis smiled, dropping his hands and returning to his earlier task of grabbing a thick black travelling cloak, which he then proceeded to fasten around his shoulders with startling fluidity for a man who appeared as aged as he. “I take rest when the need suits me.”

“Must be great having such a clear-cut routine,” Geralt uttered dryly. “Couldn’t help but notice, though, that you seem to have some experience with a sword after all. Do I need to add that to my list of things you’re still not telling me?”

“Far be it from me to tell you, but knowing how to safely hold a sword and wielding it in battle are two different things entirely, Geralt, as you well know,” Regis said quietly. “Would you have preferred I cut your hand instead?”

Geralt fastened his swords to his back, rolling his shoulders as the weight of them settled upon him.

“Wouldn’t matter, really. I get the impression you’d be quick with the bandages.”

To his surprise, Regis smiled again. His smile was much wider than the usual tight-lipped press of his mouth together that Geralt had come to expect. It seemed to reach his eyes, and it made him seem more youthful, perhaps – as if he was unfettered by the worries and responsibilities that held him down, if only for a moment. Geralt found himself looking at him, really taking notice of this man and his curious nature.

In that smile and in those eyes he saw an attempt made by this stranger to reach out, to understand and work alongside the witcher. There was also something else, something that Geralt could not quite explain. It drew him in and made him pause.

“There, you see? I believe we would work splendidly together.”

Despite himself Geralt could not resist a chuckle, tired though it was.

“You’ve made your point, Regis. Several times, in fact.”

“Ah, but am I convincing myself, or you?”

Geralt pondered that a moment, studying the man with a look of indifference. On the inside he felt that same rising conflict from before, felt it settle in his gut and curl in and around him, filling him with discomfort.

“What do you want from me?” He managed at length. Regis’ eyes softened.

“Nothing.”

“Really? Everybody wants something from me these days.”

Regis shook his head, and for the briefest of moments it appeared as if a sadness had now entered his eyes.

“My point exactly, Geralt. I only wish to help you, and I hope that in doing so, it eases the distrust I still see in your face. You have led a difficult life and are now guided on a mission that will likely mean the death of you – I claim no foresight, but even I, for all my understanding of the situation that you and your companions divulged to me last night, cannot see this path ending well for you, or any one of us here. I know better than any man that this is not a burden one should carry alone.”

Geralt ran his hand down his face. He was loath to admit it, but Regis’ words made sense this time. They made sense, and what was more, his words echoed the exact doubts and fears that the witcher had been harbouring since this all began.

And so he did something he did not expect.

Perhaps it was because for once, he appeared to have met someone who wanted to know and understand him, all the while knowing that they may very well just give their life for a cause they did not have a hope of truly comprehending. And they wanted nothing in return.

It seemed too good to be true. But Geralt saw honesty in that wizened face. Nothing but honesty. He saw that, and he saw in those black eyes something that made all his doubts, his anger and his uncertainty from last night seem childish; Geralt didn't claim to be a reasonable man, and he was well aware of his stubbornness in the face of logic every so often. Perhaps he truly had been wrong. It wouldn't be the first time, after all.

So he reached out, extending a hand which Regis clasped in turn. His hold was firm, and his skin warm. They shook and held their grasp for a while longer – a sign of a camaraderie that had perhaps been there since the very beginning, when this man had introduced himself with no fear in his eyes when they had chanced upon him in the barrows.

This time when Regis smiled, Geralt returned the gesture wholeheartedly.

“I must be crazy,” he muttered when their hands fell. Regis chuckled.

“That remains to be seen.”

Geralt scoffed, taking the jibe in stride and shaking his head as he grabbed the rest of his belongings, and he set to work on waking the others from their alcohol-induced sleep.

*****

The first morning had passed by with thankfully no incident, which, given how such an occurrence was indeed a rarity, had prompted within Geralt a heavy sense of foreboding that settled in the pit of his stomach. He attempted to let it go unnoticed, however, as something in the conversation with Regis both that morning and the previous night made him stay his tongue and hold his thoughts; he was likely leading all of them – Regis, Zoltan, Dandelion, Milva, Percival, and the women and children following in their stead – to an early grave.

As he stood by Roach’s side, idly patting her neck whilst the mare grazed the fresh grass that had since been sprinkled with dew in the early hours of the morning, he watched as his companions prepared for the journey ahead.

He could see Dandelion speaking with Zoltan by the caravan, Zoltan gesticulating avidly as he spoke while Dandelion nodded and packed his lute neatly away in the special place he had made for it within Pegasus’ saddlebags. A wide smile was on the bard’s face; he had woken up bright and chipper that morning when Geralt had roused him, and his being in a cheerful mood while the others had opened their eyes to an overwhelming sensation of grogginess and dehydration had not been well received.

The gnome, Percival, had introduced Regis to the refugees they had been escorting through the war-torn fields on their journey, as the barber-surgeon had made it his top priority to first attend to them before they continued onward away from the barrows. The women had been cautious at first – apprehensive and distrustful, even – when the man had approached them, but soon they calmed as he spoke to them in soft tones and reached into his leather bag to withdraw phials and linen bandages.

Geralt had found himself watching as he worked, his keen ears picking up the gentle sound of the man’s voice as he spoke to them in not the Common Speech, but a broad, heavily accented brogue which sounded foreign to the witcher’s ears; it wasn't Elder Speech either, and certainly not the harsh dialect of it that the Nilfgaardians had adopted as their common tongue. It occurred to him, then, that this was a language local to the region from which the refugees hailed, and inwardly he wondered when for one who claimed to prefer his solitude and privacy the barber-surgeon had managed to have found the time or the desire to immerse himself in different languages and cultures.

But such thoughts were made in idle passing; he did not know the words being spoken, but when he saw one of the children’s eyes light up and her mother’s expression soften at a cheerful-sounding quip from Regis, Geralt felt the faintest of smiles settle on his mouth.

What surprised him even more, however, was when Milva had shown herself. The archer had been in a foul mood all morning, and her words cut sharply and to the bone like one of her swift flying arrows whenever the others would so much as look at her; no one had dared ask what had gotten her in such a state, but they all agreed among themselves that the mandrake from last night had not helped. She had been ill that morning too, that much the rest of them also knew.

The witcher observed quietly as the archer approached the barber-surgeon when he had stepped back from the women he was tending, and Geralt saw mild surprise flicker across the man’s face when Milva lifted a shaking hand and pointed to the direction of the trees. She motioned for Regis to follow her, and Geralt’s eyes narrowed with concern at the unsteadiness of her feet as she walked.

From where he was standing, he could only just see their heads bowed together in conversation beyond the shade the leaves provided, and not even his heightened hearing could pick up on the words that they spoke. He suspected that it was for this very reason that Milva had asked Regis to accompany her so far away from the others; what she wanted to talk to him about was private, and Geralt only hoped that whatever the affliction, she received the aid that she clearly required.

And so the morning went on. The preparations for the caravan had been made; they would continue east on their journey. Geralt had wanted the quickest route to the imperial province to start with, damn the costs, but now that he had had a moment to think closer on it – really _think_ about it – he knew that he had acted far too brashly. As it stood, their current plan of action was to cross the Yaruga. As long as they made it to the river, they would be able to safely navigate towards the borders of Nilfgaard and hopefully avoid the large bulk of Emhyr's armies in doing so.

It wouldn’t be as simple as that, of course. It never was, but it was the best plan they had. And he sincerely hoped that someone could come up with a better one.

He heard movement and voices and his eyes drew up to find Regis now approaching with Milva alongside. The archer stormed off, her expression the very embodiment of displeasure, and Geralt idly watched as she slung her bow and quiver upon her back. She took a moment to lay both hands down upon her horse’s saddle and slump her shoulders as she breathed deep, calming breaths.

He straightened himself up from where he had since been leaning against the shack’s wall when Regis drew up alongside him, and the witcher and barber-surgeon spent a moment continuing to watch her. Then Geralt turned and spoke to him.

“She okay?”

Regis nodded, his sharp eyes still observing the woman a moment longer with clear concern. Then he smiled faintly and tilted his head to give Geralt his undivided attention.

“I believe she will be, in time.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Regis’ lips pressed tightly together.

“We shall have to see.” When he saw the look on Geralt’s face, the man shook his head. “Forgive me, Geralt, but I'm not at liberty to discuss my patient’s ailments.”

Geralt waved him off.

“Don’t worry about it. I get it.”

The smile on the man’s lips softened at that, and he nodded as he turned his attention once more to the caravan. Dandelion was making preparations to lead his horse, and Zoltan hoisted his axe onto his shoulder, grunting something under his breath as he did so. 

“Couldn’t help but notice you earlier,” Geralt continued, and he saw Regis turn his head to look at him again from the corner of his eye. The witcher nodded to the refugees. “There with the women and children. You have a way with people.”

“As one must in my profession,” Regis smiled again, warmly this time. “I find working with people and taking the time to speak with them to be a most cathartic experience. You can learn much of the world in such a way.”

“Like how to speak their language?”

Regis’ eyes glinted in obvious delight.

“I commend your exceptionally sharp observational skills, Geralt. Yes, as a matter of fact.”

Geralt stared at him a while, saying nothing else for a moment. He noted the look in the man’s eyes, and saw the pleasure that Regis clearly took in knowing that Geralt had picked up on something that no one else seemingly had. Despite himself, Geralt was amused by it – and his smile stayed on his lips as he finally broke the other’s gaze.

“You’re not the only one who notices things around here.”

“I never said I wasn’t.”

Geralt passed him another sparing glance, and this time, when their eyes met, neither attempted to look away first. To Geralt it felt as if some kind of silent understanding had been reached – one that, in his clearer state of mind this morning after last night’s revelries, he found did not disturb him to the extent that it originally had. 

“So, barber-surgeon. There anything you can’t do?” He asked. Regis laughed – a rather pleasant sound that was gentle on the ears.

“Many things, witcher. Yes, as unbelievable as that must sound to you, I'm sure.” His eyes glinted again, and Geralt had to admit to himself that he had warmed quickly to this man’s sharp wit. He began to walk forwards, seeing the others wave them over. Regis drew into step beside him and the pair strode forth in a companionable silence.

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Geralt said after a moment. Regis’ smile widened; not so much as to show his teeth, Geralt noticed again, but enough to reach his eyes.

“Of course. Just know that I don't believe either of us have the time to wait for such an exceptional instance to occur.”

Geralt grunted but did not reply further. It was clear to see that the barber-surgeon was in a good mood, and if he was honest with himself, the witcher didn't want to give him any reason to be otherwise. But how someone could seemingly always remain so optimistic, he genuinely had no idea.

“What are your plans for our journey?” Regis asked lowly when they had drawn closer to the others. Milva had retrieved Roach, Geralt saw, and he offered her a quick nod of thanks when she held out his horse's reins to him. She returned the nod sharply and left, but not before Geralt noticed that some colour had finally returned to her cheeks; she had woken up as pale as death that morning.

“Still head east. Nothing’s changed from last night, unless you have a better idea,” he said, arching a brow at the man behind him. Regis’ expression had turned pensive now, and his brows furrowed as his black eyes glazed over in thought. Eventually he shook his head, picking up his travelling staff that he had since placed down near the other bags of supplies by the caravan before he had gone to attend to the women and children.

“Not at this stage, no. But it's a long path you’re headed on, Geralt. We can’t keep heading east forever.”

“Think I don’t know that?” Geralt countered, not unkindly, but there was still a trace of annoyance in his tone. He'd been telling himself the same thing every day for the past twelve days. Regis did not reply, but it was clear by his expression that he knew, or at least somehow guessed, that Geralt had done as much. The witcher sighed, but before he was set to continue he was interrupted by Zoltan who had approached him.

“Geralt,” the dwarf announced, hand resting atop his axe. “We’re ready to get goin’ now. Just say the word an’ we’ll be off.”

“Right,” Geralt replied, reaching out to take Roach by the reins in preparation of guiding her forwards. They had decided to not ride on horseback for the first half of the journey that day, given that they simply didn't have enough horses to seat all of the members of their steadily growing company. As it turned out Regis hadn't minded this, seeing as when he was offered to share Pegasus with Dandelion he'd merely responded that he preferred to walk.

“We’re ready. Tell the others to start following,” Geralt called over his shoulder. Zoltan waved a hand and strode away, calling for everyone to get a move on. That was when the witcher then turned, casting another look back at the barber-surgeon. He considered him carefully for a moment, then decided. “Regis, walk with me.”

The corner of the man’s lips twitched upwards and he bowed his head in a polite nod, much to Geralt’s amusement. With staff in hand and leather bag strapped to his shoulder, Emiel Regis, the company's newest member, strode swiftly forth and fell into step beside the witcher, and together they left the barrows of Fen Carn behind them.


	3. Chapter 3

With each day that passed, Geralt started to learn a little more about the barber-surgeon.

When they set up their tents that first night on the road after parting the barrows, Geralt noticed that Dandelion had invited the man over to sit down with them. He did so, smiling his increasingly familiar thin-lipped smile, and the witcher would every so often cock his ears and find himself listening to the ensuing conversations as he kept watch.

He learned from that first night that Regis was surprisingly taciturn when it came to talking about himself; it didn't seem to deter Dandelion any, but then again Geralt didn't think that his friend was able to pick up on the subtle discomfort in Regis' voice as the barber-surgeon smiled again and steered the conversation onto other matters. Geralt took note of that, finding himself intrigued. He could understand the need to remain modest, especially in the company of others that he did not know so well, but the way in which Regis deflected the questions asked seemed to act as a stark contrast to the openness he was willing to display to Geralt that night when they had gazed out together at the moonlit fields of Fen Carn. 

That was something else that he took note of, and he pondered that as he resumed his watch and roamed his eyes over the roads they had just left. 

The next night of travelling, Geralt discovered that Regis would often spend most of his time speaking with the refugees. He was noticeably more in his element here rather than when he was sitting around the campfire with the others; perhaps it was because he wasn't being asked the questions he didn't have – or want to give – the answers to. It was another intriguing piece of information Geralt stored in his mind for later, and he would again watch every so often as the man bowed his head and talked to the women and children. Some part of him wanted to know what was being said; on one such occasion he had felt eyes on him, and when he turned he saw one of the children, a thin thing with dirty blonde hair, quickly turn away and blush as she ran back to what was presumably her mother. 

He knew, then, that they were talking about him. His eyes narrowed. He didn't entirely know what to make of that. Some small part of him wanted to ask, but when he looked up again and found black eyes gazing calmly at him, he felt those thoughts trail off. Regis nodded as one of the women whispered something to him, and his eyes never left Geralt's. But there was a look there, something hidden in that dark gaze. Something that Geralt could not describe, but something that he knew carried a great weight to it. Regis almost looked pleased. 

In response, Geralt stood and turned around to walk back to the others. As he did so, that same hesitant desire tugged at the corners of his mind once more: _What did she say?_

Again he had half a mind to ask Regis. He would have done so, even, if something hadn't stopped him. That something was the realisation that Regis would indeed tell him, because, after all, Geralt had wanted to ask in the first place. It was just like the man had hinted at that first night: Geralt merely had to reach out and he would know. And the barber-surgeon would allow this because they both knew that Geralt would ask the questions that Regis would gladly answer. 

Geralt could not deny that realisation piqued at his growing fascination with this curious man. But to give in and do so would be to ultimately admit that Regis had been right – that they weren't so different, the two of them. And that was not something he wanted to fully believe. Not yet, at least. 

He retired to his tent early that night, and he did not speak to Regis again until the afternoon of the third day.

They chose not to talk of that moment either, what happened on that second night on the road. Instead their conversations were clipped and mild. It seemed as if, for all intents and purposes, everything else had been forgotten. Geralt appreciated it, and once again he admired the tact that Regis displayed. Geralt decided, then, that it would only be fair if he did the same for the barber-surgeon in turn. 

He didn't ask the questions that the others did, the questions that Regis did not want to answer. And when he saw the gratitude in the man's eyes as he responded to Geralt's questions with willingness and ease, the witcher knew that that had been the right thing to do. He respected that, as he understood that hesitation well. 

When Geralt would later think back on this moment, he wondered if maybe that had been the start of it all. 

*****

They had been on the road just shy of a week, Fen Carn now but a long and distant memory. They were silent as they walked, heads only bowed in occasional conversation whenever the need to rest took them, but, as Geralt had known from the start, their journey would soon come to an inevitable halt.

Bad weather had prompted them to stop on the eighth day; at the turn of the evening a storm front had swept in from the west, and rain and wind lashed at their horses and their legs. It was meaningless to continue at that stage when the sky was so dark naught could barely be seen ahead of them, and the dirty mud-ridden paths they were travelling turned black under the rainfall and the swift loss of sunlight. The last village they had seen had been half a day’s walk behind them, and they were surrounded on all sides by forests and overgrown grassland. 

The children who rode with them clutched at their mothers in fear, and the rest of the company listened as the refugees pulled Regis aside and spoke to him urgently in hushed tones. The barber-surgeon then informed them that the women wished to rest; they could not go on in this state, and their children were unsettled.

“They won’t like it but the only shelter worth having in these parts is a cave,” Milva muttered, casting a glance over at the women who huddled together, pulling their children closer when jagged arcs of lightning crossed the sky in a violent display of power. Thunder rumbled ominously in the near distance.

“They’ve been travellin’ with us fer a while now – trust me lassie, they’re used to it,” Zoltan said. He backed away when the archer narrowed her eyes at him.

“I’m not your lassie.”

“Milva, Zoltan, enough,” Geralt said, raising his voice to make himself heard over the deluge. His skin was soaked to the bone, and casting a glance at each and every one of them he could see that he was not alone. The horses were restless, Roach especially. She stamped her hooves and snorted, throwing her head back to emit a desperate whinny. He placed a hand on her neck and flexed his fingers; the mare grew calm and still under a swift cast of Axii, and the witcher drew a deep breath.

“I know these lands well,” Regis announced, striding over. “I may be able to assist you in this regard.”

“Then by all means assist us.”

The man extended a hand, pointing towards a north-easterly direction.

“There, straight on through the forest paths, lie the remains of an old mining camp. It's abandoned now, but given that we have a lack of all other options at this present moment in time it shall have to suffice. What is most important, however, I think we can all agree, is that there is guaranteed shelter from the elements.” 

Geralt nodded.

“It’ll have to do. How long until we get there?”

“If the rain hampers us no more than it already has, a half hour’s walk as the raven flies.”

“Let’s hope we don’t run into any o’ them next,” Zoltan muttered under his breath. Regis arched a brow at him.

“Ravens are very intelligent fowls. I daresay they would be of great help to us should we encounter one.”

“Enough about the damn birds and the damn talking!” Milva said, pushing her way forwards. “The women are growing impatient, and so am I. Let’s go – otherwise there’ll be nothing left of us save our frozen corpses.”

Her words jarred them into action; indeed, a chill had broken across the land, made all the more frigid with the icy pellets of rainfall that continued to thunder around them. Teeth had started to chatter, and rain drenched cloaks were hastily drawn tighter around their bodies as the company willed their aching legs to move. Geralt felt the cold cling to him and encase him in what felt like a living frost. It had been a long time since he had been laid so bare to the elements before; he cast a quick look behind him, seeing the figures of Dandelion, Milva, Zoltan and Percival guiding the refugees in hot pursuit, hands visibly shaking as each tried to rub some warmth into their deadened limbs. It was in vain, and the night had turned truly unforgiving.

“There’d better be a place to sit and dry off, otherwise it’s all on your head,” the witcher muttered with a dry chuckle to the man beside him, and Regis answered with a thin smile on his lips.

“Have a little faith, witcher,” he said. “I would not lead you astray, especially when so many lives are on the line.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Geralt retorted tiredly. He had become used to the dry quips he shared with the barber-surgeon as of late; Regis would more often than not demonstrate amusement at Geralt's cynical wordplay. But that was not to be the case tonight. Geralt blinked in surprise when the barber-surgeon suddenly wheeled his head around to fix the witcher with sharp eyes that gazed intensely at him from under the folds of his hood. That was also when Geralt noticed that Regis was the only one who appeared to give no heed to the cold; not even a fog passed from his lips as he breathed, unlike the others. Any thought he might have voiced aloud at that died on his tongue when Regis spoke again.

“I gave you my word, Geralt. I don’t so easily break it.”

Though spoken gently, and not unkindly, Regis' words carried a distinct sadness to them. Geralt was rendered momentarily speechless, only able to return the gaze that Regis held on him as they walked quickly, their feet splashing in wet mud and rocky terrain that threatened to trip their feet. When at last he did look away, Geralt could still feel the lingering presence of that foreign stare, and he felt a chill crawl through his spine that had nothing to do with the weather.

He had felt it on occasion over the course of their travels, indeed even as far back as the first few nights on the road, but it had been the first time that he had taken proper notice of it. And now that he was made aware, he paused to focus on the sensation. It was reminiscent of the feeling he would so often get that accompanied the rush of blood that pumped through his veins: that tingling, tantalising sense of awareness, that race of his heart that accompanied the tell-tale prelude to a fight. It was, he discovered, the adrenaline he felt when he could sense the monster that lurked around the corner, just before he drew his blade silently to meet it.

And it had never been something he had associated with another human being before. 

_Interesting._

He could feel the moment when Regis’ gaze dropped, as well. Geralt idly brushed his fingers against his medallion, his curiosity – and caution – stirring all the while. 

Not another word was said as the pair marked the way in silence, their keen eyes piercing past the thick blanket of night and disorienting torrent of rain; Geralt, too, wondered about the barber-surgeon’s exceptional sight – but some small part of his mind jeered at him, telling him that he should not be surprised. He had said it to Regis that first night, after all: he wasn’t sure if anything could surprise him anymore.

It seemed, however, that Emiel Regis remained the one exception to that rule.

Regis strode ahead, guiding Geralt behind him as he pointed out the way; Geralt then paused to allow those trailing behind to catch up. They worked like this – like clockwork, the witcher mused – no words said but working together in tandem to navigate through the dense swathes of forest that rose around them. The scent of rain upon the earth was a sweetness that worked to distract from the overwhelming cold, as were the feel of leaves upon the skin – something sharp and rough to poke and prod feeling back into unfeeling limbs.

But amidst the groaning, the shivering, and the struggles to get the horses to comply to their master’s wishes, sure enough – just as Regis had said – within half an hour of their troubles the trees had given way to a small clearing. In this clearing they saw the ruins of mining equipment, rusted and rotten beyond all recognition from years of neglect. The remains of a campsite, too, could still be seen – though the miner’s hut that would have once stored equipment and provided a safe place for shelter from the elements was now unusable; the roof had long since caved in, and the windows were shattered. Claw marks could be seen against the wooden door that had swung open on its hinges and now hung precariously off balance. Given their location and the shape of the marks, Geralt surmised that it was likely a wolf or a wild dog that had once tried desperately to get inside out of hunger.

Behind him he could hear the whispers of the womenfolk; he did not understand them, but he recognised the sound of displeasure when he heard it. He did not blame them. As he gazed at the sparse campsite void of all warmth and rife with the evidence of prowling nocturnal creatures, he wanted nothing more than a warm bed and a proper roof over his head himself.

“Is… is this it?” Dandelion asked timidly from behind them. “Doesn’t look very safe to me…”

“Given our current location it's the safest place we shall find for miles yet,” Regis said quietly. “We cannot use this campsite directly, of course. But the mine shafts themselves still hold further lodgings inside from when the miners had once made frequent use of these caves, and what is more, they will be dry enough for us to safely light a fire and rest as best we can until the storm abates. Shall we?”

He did not wait for an immediate answer, Regis instead already making to head into the gaping maw of the cave entrance that he had pointed out whilst he spoke. They had no choice but to follow, and the barber-surgeon stood there and waited patiently as the women and children were ushered in first by Percival. The horses and the rest of their cumbersome possessions were left outside – they would not be able to fit into the narrow corridors of the caverns.

Thankfully, however, it did not take long for all to rush hastily inside. A great gust of wind had chosen that moment to sweep forcefully through the clearing, and it battered mercilessly at their skin and clothes and encouraged everyone to move quickly until all were safely under the cover of the cavern entrance.

Shivering, those present gathered closely around Regis as the man took the fore and beckoned for them all to resume following him. He led them further within, and Geralt took the opportunity to locate a torch that had long since had its flames blown out; he picked it up, and with a twist of his fingers the torch burst with renewed light. Its blaze emanated throughout the narrow crevices of the cave, and Geralt pulled yet another unlit torch from a rusted bracket on the wall, lighting it in turn and passing it to Milva.

In this way the light was shared by his companions the further they edged into the cold dampness of the mines; Milva took each torch that Geralt lit for her and she offered them to Dandelion, Zoltan and the others, and the welcome blaze of fire illuminating the dark was clear to see in the relief that shone just as brightly on everyone’s faces. Perhaps the most interesting thing, however, Geralt thought as he stayed a while to make sure the refugees went ahead of him, was that Regis still had not lit a torch of his own.

Whether he could simply see clearly enough from the light behind him or whether he merely moved with the air of a man familiar with these passages, the witcher couldn’t say. But as it had when he had observed the man navigating the forests outside, it tugged at the edges of his mind regardless – and for a while longer as the walls opened out into the remnants of a high-ceilinged cavern, he continued to watch the robed man with interest. But evidently as with many other things associated with this strange individual that he had quickly discovered over the course of the past week, it was something to reflect upon later; a calm word from Regis in the refugees’ common tongue saw the women and children sit down and exhale sighs of relief, and they settled themselves as well as they could upon the cold hard ground whilst the barber-surgeon began preparing a fireplace in the middle of the abandoned mine.

Geralt nodded to his companions, he and Milva placing the remaining torches upon fresh brackets that remained nailed to the walls, and Dandelion, Zoltan and Percival dug through the saddlebags and trunks they had tugged in with them in search of rations and water skins.

Now supplied with food, drink and warmth, the mood of the company had lifted considerably, and conversations even dared to rise as the group sat down and partook of their evening meal. From where they were in these old caverns, the sound of the storm from outside could barely be heard, and it was indeed well-sheltered from the elements, providing a much needed element of safety in this hostile region. Regis had been right again.

It was this thought, among many others, that Geralt mulled over as he tore at the half stale scraps of his bread. But then Dandelion drew out his lute and began to sing, and Geralt yet again chased those thoughts from his mind.

*****

Some time after the meal had ended and the conversation had ceased into a lull, Regis again announced that he would be tending to the refugees as he so often did. He was waved off without so much as a backwards glance from the witcher, who was focused on his game of cards with Zoltan and Percival; the gnome, much to Zoltan’s delight, had managed to take one of the decks Zoltan’s dwarven companions had left behind when they had parted ways shortly before the group had come upon the barrows. The game however, while interesting at first, soon began to tire the witcher – and at one stage Geralt had found he'd begun to divert his attention once again to what was happening behind him.

He heard the sounds of low voices and bodies shifting upon mattresses and the small clinking of glass phials, and what seemed to him to be the stirrings of another quiet conversation. He was immediately reminded of that second night a week ago, and the desire to know what was being said. He pondered on this, his ears picking up the sounds of Regis' voice every so often, but his focus was suddenly brought back to the here and now when Percival cussed sharply at his defeat in the round. Zoltan smirked smugly at him and guided the coin he had won over to his side of the rickety old table they had found amongst the rest of the mining equipment, and Geralt stood up with a yawn.

“Where’re you going?” Percival demanded, sizing the witcher up with confusion.

“Gonna take watch, relieve Milva of her post.” Geralt lifted his hand in a wave, casting a single glance towards Regis speaking to the refugees as he did so. Everything was calm. It almost felt strange. He felt eyes on his back as he strode past, and as he left their lodgings he was acutely aware of a unique intensity to the gaze, such as he had felt outside earlier that evening. The corner of his lips drew into a thin smile, but his steps did not falter. He would not ask, he decided. Not yet. 

He found Milva drawn into herself by the shadows of the cave entrance, her hunched posture rendering her almost unrecognisable against the gloom – so much so, in fact, that she would have appeared invisible to anyone else passing by. But she did not escape the witcher, whose eyes were far sharper than that of anyone else's.

He stood a while beside her, the two only sparing each other the briefest of glances as they watched the rain fall gently against the muddied ground outside; the storm had ceased for the most part, but it was too late in the night to continue their journey. Not even the moon could be seen behind the dark curtains of the clouds that veiled it. The scent of the rain against the damp earth however, that sweet petrichor that assaulted the senses, carried with it a calm that not even this oppressive darkness could fully penetrate. 

Breathing in deeply and gradually exhaling, Geralt finally turned to his companion.

“You’ve been quiet.”

Milva grunted.

“I see no reason to talk. The women and children need help. We need to give it to them. The sooner we do that, the sooner we get out of these gods-forsaken woods and find your Ciri.”

Geralt sat down beside her. Milva shifted a little against the rock to allow him to do so. Neither said anything again for a long moment, but Geralt felt the woman watching him from the corner of her eye.

“How’s your leg?”

It was Geralt’s turn to grunt as he absentmindedly stretched his leg out in front of him. The pain had ebbed and flowed throughout the day, but it was nothing he could not handle. He had far more important things on his mind to worry about than some magically inflicted wound, no matter how long it took to heal. He could still walk, still swing a sword. That was good enough for him.

“It’s fine.”

“You should do something about it.”

“Already tried that.”

Milva bowed her head, continuing to eye Geralt with a growing smirk on her lips.

“You know what I meant. He's been with us for a while, now. Don’t you trust him?”

Geralt’s smile was unpleasant; he tilted his head back against the stone and closed his eyes.

“Why? Don’t you? Seemed to be okay around him a few days back.”

“That’s just it, though. He’s too _good_. I haven’t met anyone else like him, but the ones you hear of… it’s almost like they don’t exist anywhere outside of fairy tales.” There was the sound of Milva shifting against the rocks again before she stilled. “I don’t know what to make of him.”

“Even after seeing how he cares for the refugees?”

There was something unspoken in Milva’s silence; he knew she was choosing her next words carefully.

“Here’s the cold hard facts, witcher. In our world, there’s no such thing as a man who does something for nothing. You know that better than the rest of us. Yet here we are, suddenly taking into our group a man who claims he doesn’t want anything from us except a place in our company because he sees the sick and the wounded and treating them is the ‘right thing to do.’” She was looking at him now, Geralt could feel her cold glare upon him. “Who in their right mind does that? It’s unnatural. So do I trust him? Well…”

She took a breath, held it, and sighed sharply. 

“I don’t trust he is what he says he is. Not really. There’s a story to him – men like that usually carry more than just a weight on their shoulders.”

Geralt opened his eyes at long last, remaining silent as he gazed once more out at the wet earth before them. Then he nodded once, as if confirming something for himself.

“You should get some sleep. I’ll take over the watch.”

If Milva thought to question him further she remained silent a moment longer instead, continuing to watch him with her rapt gaze. Then she scoffed, standing from the ground and stretching her arms over her head.

“About bloody time,” she grumbled. “My arse was killing me. Goodnight, witcher.”

Geralt did not respond, but he remained gazing out at the steady rainfall even as her steps gradually faded away into the caverns behind him. Only when he was certain he was alone did he exhale softly and release the tension from his muscles.

Milva had raised a very good point, one that he himself had been warring with over the course of that long, tiring week.

What weight could that man be carrying on his shoulders, this man who held himself upright with not pride, but humility? No one helped another purely out of the goodness of their own heart – such fanciful delusions were, as Milva had pointed out, only found in the books that mothers read their crying babes at night. One thing was for certain – and it remained as certain as the day it did when their company had first laid eyes on him: Emiel Regis was most certainly not all that he appeared. Whether this would be for good or for worse, Geralt did not know. And that is what both intrigued and continued to fascinate him. He touched his hand once again to his medallion, idly toying with the silver wolf's head as he sat there.

He tilted his head back again and let the rain drown out the sound of his thoughts.

*****

The sound of sleep-laden breathing echoed around the cavern.

The rain had passed in the early hours of the morning, and the clouds had eventually drawn back to allow the rose-coloured dawn to bathe the sky at long last. Geralt had not slept, hadn’t needed to, and he watched over everyone now in these last few minutes of rest before the caravan was set to travel onwards.

But he was not the only one who had remained awake throughout the night.

He saw movement beside him, rather than heard it, and he turned his head only when the earthy scent of herbs and sweetened spices overwhelmed him. Long grey hair masked the man’s wizened features and prominent profile, and in his slender hands Regis held out a flask of what Geralt could tell was once again cold, clear water.

He accepted the drink with a nod of thanks and spoke only once he had had his fill.

“Busy night?”

Regis smiled.

“No busier than your own, I daresay. Ah, thank you.” He took the flask back from Geralt and drained a solid mouthful before placing it onto the ground between them. Silence ensued for a moment, and the witcher used this time to study his companion. Regis had been going back and forth between the refugees for a large portion of the evening as was his wont, never seeming to tire no matter the task thrust upon him. And Geralt, as he so often found, could not see the faintest trace of fatigue upon the man’s face. He inwardly admired the barber-surgeon’s resolve.

Their eyes then met, and Geralt found himself returning the steady gaze those black eyes held on him until he turned his head and looked at the refugees huddled together by the remains of the fireplace. He remained clutching his medallion, and he twirled it in his grasp just as he had been doing since returning from his watch. 

“They’re not the only ones to suffer at the hands of war,” Regis murmured beside him, as if sensing where Geralt's thoughts were taking him, and Geralt listened intently as the man spoke. “But they were lucky – almost unbelievably so – to have escaped when they did. I've learned much from them. As I tend to their wounds they speak to me, telling me of their village and the relatively peaceful life they led until it all changed." 

The water flask was briefly passed between them again, and now empty, Regis took it back and packed it away into the satchel he wore under his robes. Then he spoke plainly and clearly, right to the point. Geralt almost appreciated it. 

"I've noticed your eyes on them for a while now. Do you wish to know what they tell me?”

Geralt smiled thinly. 

"I do." He wasn't sure any longer if he really did, but he was becoming increasingly familiar with Regis' uncanny ability to understand what could not be said. So he decided that he would finally ask. Just this once. 

“The woman there is Lisette.” Regis indicated the frail form of a woman cradling two children in her arms. “She had only just returned from the baker’s that very morning when she heard the cries of her children. Hurrying home, she was met with the gruesome sight of her husband’s head falling to the ground, the Nilfgaardian’s blade glistening wet with his blood as that vile man stood over his remains. She was certain she would have been next, if it wasn’t for her neighbour’s son toppling the brigand over to allow her to flee clutching her children to her breast.”

Geralt looked away.

“Take it that didn’t end well for him.”

“You guess correctly.” 

“And what about the girls in the corner?”

“Dana and Elsa. Sisters. Well-loved by all their friends and family, and the last time they saw their parents before the massacre, it was when their mother was brutally gagged and raped as their father was forced to watch on. I’m sure you can also guess how that abhorrent scene ended, too.”

Geralt cussed under his breath.

“They’re only children.”

“And their story is one mirrored by many children the land over.” Regis sighed, and in his eyes Geralt saw sadness, bitter and deep. He took it to heart, the witcher realised. He carried these people’s burdens as his own.

_Why?_

He wanted to ask, if only to understand this man’s madness. But before he could do so Regis had beaten him to it.

“No man, woman or child should have to bear such a burden.”

The witcher looked at him; _really_ looked. He studied the unwavering depths of his black eyes, the sadness laid bare for him to see. Anger, too, was there – stirring just beneath the surface and dancing across the tip of the man’s tongue as he spoke sharp words laced with equally sharp distress, discomfort... and despair. And what the witcher found most fascinating above all was the knowledge that if it was anyone else sitting here beside the barber-surgeon, they would not be able to see what Geralt was seeing – what Emiel Regis _chose_ for him to see.

In that moment, Geralt realised that perhaps they really weren’t so different after all. In fact, now he almost believed it. 

“Why tell me all this?” It was an empty question – he had asked to be told, after all. But Geralt knew that Regis had told him something else with his words. Something that only Geralt was meant to hear. 

Regis smiled faintly and the spell – or whatever it was, for Geralt could not think of anything else to describe the seemingly invisible force that compelled him to continue gazing at the other man with a growing eagerness to learn more from that unguarded stare – broke in that moment, and the witcher withdrew from the other slightly. Regis did not comment on this and he returned his gaze to the others.

“Why indeed?”

“Not in the mood for games, Regis.”

“It’s not a game, Geralt.” Those black eyes were back on him. “Far from it, I assure you. I’m telling you all of this because I wish for you to know it. They could have left at any time during their travels with Zoltan and his companions, and again when Dandelion, Milva and yourself joined them. But they did not. They stayed because they were shown mercy. Do you recall the night you brought a swift and fitting end to those marauders who assaulted the young girl on the pox-ridden farm? Because they do. These women and children who follow your company, Geralt, do so not because they have nowhere else to go. They do it because they see in you something that they have not seen in an exceedingly long time: hope.”

Geralt blinked. He realised, then, that this had been what the woman, Lisette, had told Regis that second night. That night that Geralt had seen the look in Regis' eyes and wanted to _know,_ if only for a moment. 

“What?”

“You seem surprised.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Geralt smiled; it was an ugly thin curve of his lips. “Hope isn’t the first thing people usually think of when they look at someone like me.”

Regis nodded.

“Yes, I would wager their thoughts turn immediately to a rather less than flattering assessment: a wandering vagrant, a mutant, and altogether uncouth.”

“More or less. You still could’ve spared me that diagnosis, you know.” 

“Why should I have?” Regis’ eyes flashed with something Geralt could not describe. But if he didn’t know any better, he would have thought the man appeared… disappointed. “I'm only telling you what you wish to hear.”

Geralt scoffed.

“Is it really so hard to believe that there are those in the world who can look past what others choose to ignore?”

“Show me someone who can and then I’ll believe you.”

“That, Geralt, is exactly what I'm doing.”

When Geralt did not immediately reply, Regis pressed on.

“Witcher though you may be, you gave these people a reason to believe that not all the stories about your guild are true. When they believed that all hope had fled them, you arrived. You gave them shelter, sought to go above and beyond your code and took them in as if they were a part of your own company. Try to hide it as you will, but if you could only see the looks they glance your way when your back is turned to them, you would see as I do, Geralt of Rivia, that they admire you. They wish to reach out and thank the hand that was extended to them in their time of need, but you will not allow it. And I believe I know why.”

“What could you possibly claim to believe you know about me?” Geralt did not intend for his tone to sound as harsh as it did, but Regis’ words stirred something within him; distrust warred with a deeper emotion that Geralt had not often dared to indulge: a dare to hope, perhaps as the refugees did. He did not want to believe that Regis’ words held truth to them, but he _wanted_ …

And Regis, patient as ever, gave him that very thing he sought.

“You’ve spent so much time believing that people view you with nothing short of contempt that you fail to realise when others, in fact, see you as an equal.”

That same look from before resurfaced in his eyes: the steady black stare, the unwavering patience in that gaze. And Geralt at last understood what it was he saw in the look Regis fixed him with, and indeed had been showing him since the night they had met. It was, as Regis had so helpfully pointed out to him, the gaze of one who viewed another on equal terms.

This time Geralt did not look away.

“I’m flattered,” he smirked wryly, voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. At least, that had been his intent. But in the end it was just another thing he kept fooling himself with, it would seem; when no sword was at hand to deflect any oncoming blows, his tongue would have to suffice. Usually his wit had served him well in the past, but tonight Geralt appeared to have at long last met his match – and everything the barber-surgeon had said was disarming. Regis was undeterred however, and he merely returned the smile with that same damned look in his eyes. As if he knew that the witcher’s words were meaningless now that he had been laid out in the open, bare for Regis to see.

Hell, he probably saw everything in that moment. 

“I'm not asking you to trust me.” When Geralt’s eyes narrowed, Regis held up a hand, silencing the witcher before he could interrupt. “I know you still carry reservations about my being here. I understand perfectly, Geralt. And by my telling you this tonight, I merely wished for you to see the other side of the coin, as it were. That is all.”

“Why do you trust me?” Geralt had dropped all pretence now; if Regis was going to read him like an open book he may as well not hold anything else back.

When he would look back on this moment in the future to come, he would realise that this was the beginning, the breaking point, the point of no return – the bridge had started to burn and if he did not hurry across it in time the flames would swallow him whole.

Trust was a terrifying thing. And it unnerved him how much he needed it.

At last Regis’ expression changed; that gods-damned _look_ faded from his eyes to be replaced with something Geralt was far more familiar with – uncertainty.

_Aha._

Maybe Regis did not know everything, after all.

“Tell me something, witcher. Your guild has a rather unique viewpoint on the natural order of things, does it not?” The barber-surgeon’s voice dropped low as he gazed into the fading embers of the fireplace. “Ask a peddler on the road and he would say that the world is only ever in shades of black and white, good and evil, chaos and order, correct? And pose the same question to a king, a priest, or even a thug rotting in a city dungeon, and you are likely to earn the same response.”

Geralt nodded slowly, not certain where the man was going with this.

“Usually the way it goes, yeah. You’re avoiding the question.”

Regis smiled again at that, though this time it was a mere quirk of the lips, barely noticeable.

“I've not forgotten it, Geralt. Humour me for a moment first, if you will. I wish to know what a witcher would say if faced with this very question. What is their stance on the way of the world as humans and nonhumans know it?”

Geralt sighed, rubbing his forehead with the palm of his hand.

“That it’s never just in black and white. There’s shades of grey, too. We’re told to keep out of politics, remain neutral. Makes it easier to accept a job and do it. Getting in the way complicates things and risks running us out of a contract. Or a village. Or a city.”

“I imagine you speak from personal experience.”

“You imagine right. Just like you were right before, Regis. People usually look at my kind with nothing but contempt. They hate us, but they have no choice but to hire us when a nekker swarm overruns their village, or necrophages start disturbing their dead. Why? Because no one else will, or even knows how to. We’re a necessary evil.”

Regis nodded solemnly, hanging onto Geralt’s words with a focus that almost amused the witcher.

“And what about monsters?”

Geralt blinked, facing the man again who was gazing at him with another unreadable expression in his black eyes. There was something hidden in that stare, Geralt knew it, but he could not think of what it was. Nor did he particularly want to.

“What about them?”

“Are they not part of the world, too? What would you say about those creatures you hunt for the coin to use on your next meal? I imagine the silver sword is not just for show.”

Geralt sighed again.

“You imagine too much,” he muttered. Regis’ eyes twinkled with amusement.

“Perhaps.”

“Monsters're different,” Geralt said at length, slowly. “They don’t come into the equation, not really. In a world of men, they’re the one constant people can agree on that needs eliminating. They’re chaos. Pure chaos. Simple as that. But…”

Regis eyed him sharply.

“But?”

“My code allows some leeway in the fighting of monsters. There're sentient species I’ll never hunt down, for example. Dopplers, godlings, dragons – anything that has enough intelligence to keep to themselves or help people instead of harm them. And if the monster is the by-product of a curse… I have to do all I can to break that curse first.”

A brief moment of silence passed before Geralt continued. Regis, patient as ever, simply waited.

“But sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference. It’s when I ride into a village and see the villagers getting harassed by their lord that I have to think. It’s when I drop an alghoul’s head onto the ealdorman’s desk and ask for payment that I have to question when he sends his hounds on me and goes home at night to take advantage of the miller’s wife. It’s when I hear pained screams echo in the air as an entire town burns and stinks of burnt flesh and soot that I have to stop and make a choice.”

“And what choice is that?” Regis’ voice was a soft whisper. Geralt stared right at him, cat eyes blazing. He didn't realise he had let go of his medallion until he felt his hand fall to his lap. 

“I draw my steel sword instead. Both are for monsters, and sometimes monsters and men are one in the same. When that happens, it’s better to let everything and everyone innocent flee while they can.”

The air between them seemed to still for a moment as they grew silent, both men simply gazing intently at one another as the first streams of dawn’s sunlight glanced off the cavern’s far walls. Around them their company began to stir, Milva first, followed by Dandelion, Zoltan, and finally Percival. The refugees, too, began to yawn off the clutches of sleep that had until recently so deeply claimed them.

They were all of them ignored, however. Geralt found himself unable to look away in that moment from the intensity of Regis’ eyes. The barber-surgeon gazed at him, his eyes dropping momentarily to the hand that had fallen away from the medallion around the witcher's neck, before returning again to Geralt's face. Something kindled within his stare, as if he had realised something in that instant and had at last come to a slow, long-awaited decision. Then the man smiled again.

“And that, Geralt, is why I trust you.”

Briefly taken aback by the admission in those words, that heady rush of adrenaline from earlier filled him once again, and in the back of his head Geralt found himself growing still. There was something more to this man, something far more than he let on. He knew that, Milva knew it too. What _was_ it? Before he could voice his thoughts, however, Regis had started to stand up. Geralt, wanting to seize the chance now before the others fully awoke, threw all caution to the wind and did so. He finally asked the question he had been meaning to ask from the very beginning. 

“Someone told me earlier that there're no good men in this world. That the ones who do something for others and expect nothing in return are only read about in kid’s stories. They carry more than just a weight on their shoulders.”

Regis arched a brow.

“Your friend is very observant. I find no fault with that line of thinking.”

“Then what are you hiding, Regis?”

The smile that parted the barber-surgeon’s lips was hidden slightly by the grey locks that swept over his shoulder as he straightened up in full.

“A lot of things, Geralt. Maybe you shall find out one day.”


	4. Chapter 4

“I have to tell you, I think it’s wonderful you decided to join us, Regis,” Dandelion announced cheerfully as they rode the dirt-strewn roads, their horses kicking up dust and debris behind them as they were guided along the well-worn paths.

Not approving of the bard's enthusiastic mood that day and indeed finding it considerably jarring, Milva, Zoltan and Percival shot withering glares at the man who urged Pegasus into a trot. This was ignored by Dandelion who was attempting to draw level with Regis’ quick pace, albeit with some degree of comical effort on his part. Regis, noticing this, made no immediate comment but subtly measured his strides so as to make it easier for Dandelion to keep up with him. He smiled at him and inclined his head towards the poet, appearing to be quite at ease and appreciative of the attempt at conversation. 

“I thank you, Dandelion,” he said warmly. “I’m glad to see my offer of service was looked upon favourably.”

If Geralt felt the man’s eyes on him as he said this, he did not choose to comment or give any recognition of the fact. He merely continued as he was – riding silently ahead and patting Roach’s neck.

“Why shouldn’t it be? We need a healer around here, my friend – Geralt especially. Between you and me, he’d be in a much more pleasant mood when his leg finally gets better. He’s not normally such a stick in the mud, but—”

“I can hear you, Dandelion,” Geralt said sharply from the front. He turned and fixed the bard with a warning glare. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Regis’ lips twitch with a pending smile.

Dandelion cleared his throat and a flush of colour rushed to his cheeks. Ignoring this, Geralt resumed his wary watch of the roads.

It was no small secret that their company was glad to leave the caves behind them; since that night, now two nights ago, they had picked up the pace of their journey, eager to leave the forests and return to civilisation – or what remained of it, at least. It was also no small secret that Nilfgaard was constantly on the move, Emhyr’s armies tearing through the northern lands in their bid for power with far greater zeal and strength than before. A lone merchant they had passed during that day's travels had feverishly warned them away from the south and away from the hills and valleys, where one would only have to look at the horizon to see it turn black from the banners of the sea of invaders.

When those in the company had explained that their paths lay east and not south, the man had only gazed at them with pity in his eyes; Nilfgaard had extended their reach too far, and it would take nothing short of a miracle to save the Northern Realms now. For all intents and purposes, hope was lost. Geralt did his best to purge the merchant’s cries from his mind. If he faltered now…

He did not want to think of it.

“Geralt, the women’re getting restless.”

Geralt turned his head briefly, glad for the distraction. He cast Zoltan a quick glance and nodded.

“I know.”

They had decided over the course of the past day’s travels to take a detour to the refugee camp by the Chotla. Geralt knew the way as he had travelled the path once before, but he deferred to Regis’ knowledge of the area when the barber-surgeon had offered to lead them instead. It was hoped that there would be others in the camp who either knew or could at least help the women and children who followed them.

As unfortunate as their situation was, Geralt did not wish to spend any longer than necessary being held back anymore by the refugees. His path was not theirs, and the sooner they found a place of relative safety in amongst all this chaos the better. He did not think they would find such peace in Nilfgaard, if they even survived that long. He warred with himself over these thoughts, however; indeed, he had kept himself awake long into the early hours of the night many a time deliberating over the choices he must make. Witchers were viewed by many to be heartless, and he did not want to give them any more reason to think so of him – especially not after all the trouble that Regis had gone to to inform him of how highly they viewed him against all the odds.

But in times of war, sometimes this was better than the alternative. Sometimes it was better to be heartless than hated. Geralt, after all, knew painfully well that hatred would come easily if he dragged them senselessly to their deaths.

Half of him wondered if that hadn’t been Regis’ reasoning behind telling him all that in the first place that night; by showing Geralt just how much he meant to those women and children, the witcher was made aware that not everyone was the same after all. It stirred doubt and raised questions that Geralt had never imagined he wanted answered. And now he found he cared what they thought of him. He would have laughed at that moment, if it wouldn’t draw the attention of his companions as they continued on the roads.

 _He’s given me scruples,_ Geralt thought to himself as he pulled his hand away from Roach's neck. _Damn it._

If he realised that he had been looking more favourably upon the barber-surgeon in these later days since their conversation in the early stirrings of dawn in that cave, he again chose to ignore it. Or at least he tried to; he saw a dark cloaked figure moving into his peripheral vision and striding up to join him. The earthy scent of herbs and spices greeted his senses, and Geralt inclined his head and turned.

_Speak of the devil._

“How is your leg faring this morning, Geralt?”

The witcher considered the question a while, feeling the ache in his knee and glad that it wasn’t a raging pain like before.

“Much better, thanks.”

Regis nodded, seeming satisfied with the response.

“And glad I am to hear it. I'm always happy to provide my services should the need arise again.”

Geralt scoffed. If he didn’t know any better by the faint smirk gracing the man’s lips, he would have thought that Regis was mocking him.

“You gonna keep bringing that up?”

“Why, Geralt, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The barber-surgeon’s smile widened, and Geralt knew then that Regis was, in fact, doing just that. Geralt sighed, amused despite himself, but this time as he returned his gaze to the roads ahead of them he avoided looking directly into those black eyes. He thought it would be best if he did not – not unless he was willing to have his world shaken all over again just as it had on that cold morning that had been spent in those old mining caverns.

Perhaps Regis sensed this too, as out of the corner of his eyes Geralt saw the man’s smile soften in understanding, and a silence fell upon them; companionable, each man to their own thoughts. Though both were undoubtedly thinking the same.

They rode on.

*****

The morning in question had started out as well as any other.

They had been preparing to leave the caverns where they had taken shelter for that stormy night. At this point in their journey they had already put a good few miles between the barrows and their current destination, and after their rest the women and children were in as good a mood as they could possibly be, given the circumstances.

Tempers were slow to flare, and food rations were ample enough for their entire company. They ate well, drank well, and for all intents and purposes they were all of them in a relatively jovial mood as they left those winding halls and gathered the horses.

So of course it was only fitting that it all went wrong.

The pain had started slowly at first. Geralt had felt it deep inside his bones, that jarring ache and tension from his injuries that not even the cleansing waters of Brokilon had been fully able to heal. The wound and the accompanying fracture that lay with it was magical in nature, a force so powerful that not even the dryads could accurately combat it, and with each burst of fire along his flesh as he moved that morning, Geralt saw Vilgefortz’s face flash in his mind.

He knew that that face would haunt his dreams for many days and years to come, just as Ciri's did.

He tried to hide it. He would step slowly when the others were not looking, and he would lean down and pretend to busy himself with rearranging his saddlebags or sharpening his swords. When his face was hidden from view, he would shut his eyes and grit his teeth. And if he was lucky enough to be out of sight completely, he would grip his leg and cuss aloud from the inferno that coursed through him.

It angered him how he had been reduced to this: ambling along on an injured knee, hobbling around like a decrepit elder. But, thankfully, the times when the pain was nigh unbearable were far and few in-between. He could ignore it for the most part. So what if he had to favour his other leg more in battle? As long as he didn’t apply unnecessary pressure to his wound, he could endure it.

He had to, for Ciri’s sake.

But of course he was fooling himself. That appeared to be happening more often than not lately.

Still, if anyone had to bear witness to his shame, he supposed it wasn’t entirely a bad thing that it was the barber-surgeon. At least out of all those gathered, he was the one who was considerably greater equipped to deal with things like this.

That, Geralt supposed, was one of the reasons why he did not shake away the hand that came to a gentle rest upon his shoulder.

“Allow me.”

Geralt did.

He sighed, the pain growing sharper and biting more insistently throughout his leg as Regis helped him lean back against the cave wall and eased him down. Geralt watched silently, unable to or just simply too weary to bother with sharp retorts or deflective banter as Regis opened the satchel he wore at his waist and pulled out a small glass phial filled with what looked like some kind of herbal mixture.

Geralt tilted his head back, eagerly drinking down the contents of the phial as Regis pulled the stopper free and handed it to him. He heard the man’s cautious whisper, trying to get him to take slower sips as the medicine was only meant to be taken in small doses, but the witcher ignored him. The pain was killing him. Quite literally, he thought.

A long-fingered hand came out to rest atop his own, and Geralt heard an amused huff of breath escape Regis as he helped steady the witcher’s grip. It was only then that Geralt realised he was shaking. He was glad for the warmth of the hands guiding him in that moment, because a sudden jerk in his injured knee almost had him spill the final droplets of medicine all over himself.

“I think that’s quite enough for now, Geralt,” Regis admonished gently, taking the phial back from the witcher’s sweaty grasp. Geralt groaned, closing his eyes and nodding as he slumped further back against the cave wall. He had to hand it to Regis – whatever the hell was in that stuff had worked wonders, and already the pain ebbed and eased into something more manageable. Geralt was just about to say so when he felt Regis take hold of him again, and he allowed himself to be guided to a more comfortable sitting position against part of the rock wall that jutted out near the ground.

When he opened his eyes he found himself looking into a steady black-eyed gaze.

“Tasted like shit,” Geralt offered by means of a weak apology. Regis chuckled.

“I shall try to remedy that in future.”

“‘Remedy that.’ Funny. Great name for an apothecary.”

Regis’ lips twitched and he cocked his head to the side, amusement growing upon his pale face at Geralt’s quip.

“Well I’m glad to see that you haven’t lost your sense of humour.”

Geralt scoffed, but then swallowed thickly as that particular action shot another dull ebb of pain through his muscles. Regis continued, not waiting for Geralt to reply.

“I would suggest not putting any further unnecessary pressure on your leg for quite some time. And in future, I would appreciate it if you try not to bury the pain under your usual stoic countenance. Some burdens cannot be shouldered alone.” Regis' smile was thin on his lips. "I know that well."

It had not been the first time the man had hinted at such; Geralt stared at Regis for a while, trying to interpret the expression on the barber-surgeon’s face. He was inscrutable as always.

“Managed alright so far. Besides, what do you care? You told me when we first met that not even you could heal what was done to me.”

Regis’ unreadable expression grew grim.

“On the contrary, I care a great deal, Geralt. As for me being unable to heal your wounds, I can only do my best with what I have to ease the pain as it comes. Though,” and here the man smiled his usual tight-lipped smile, “I would again appreciate it if you don’t give me reason to do so in the first place. Treating a witcher’s injuries is not entirely within my realm of expertise.”

Geralt was careful when he scoffed this time.

“Can’t promise anything. Occupational hazard and all that.”

Regis’ smile widened, though he chose not to add further comment. A few minutes went by in which Geralt wondered if the others would try to find him, given that their company had been set to leave the cave just before his injury had flared anew. But after a few minutes longer, still having seen no sign of them, he assumed that at some point in-between his distraction with his leg Regis must have informed the others of his predicament.

Chancing another glance up at the man before him, Geralt could see by the look on the grey haired man’s face that his assumption was correct.

Geralt calmly watched him for a moment, holding Regis' gaze. He could tell that the man was on the verge of asking something; his lips moved as a question began to form on them. Geralt wondered, as he so often did, what Regis was thinking. He considered their proximity and their solitude away from the others; he would not be surprised if the question that Regis wanted to ask carried a great weight to it. 

After that morning, Geralt did not think that anything could bear a greater weight than what Regis had told him in the stirrings of the dawn. But, of course, he knew that he would be wrong. Regis, as always, appeared to remain exceptional – and the one exception to everything. So Geralt waited patiently and prepared for the questions that he did not know if he could fully answer. Not yet, at least. 

It was interesting, Geralt thought. Interesting and fascinating. Perhaps he should feel concerned, or something like it – for all that the witcher revealed of himself to this man, or had revealed to him by Regis' apparently unerring ability to understand what could not be said aloud, Geralt still learned precious little of Regis in turn. Even now he still could not quite fully figure out where the man stood in all this. But again, though he should be concerned, he found that he was not. Something, a little voice nagging in the back of his head, told Geralt that to feel that way would be pointless. And just this once he was inclined to listen it. 

“I think it would be best to remain here a few minutes longer,” Regis announced at length, seeming to at last settle on what it was he wanted to ask, and Geralt nodded. “In the meantime, perhaps you could indulge my curiosity…”

“What do you want to know?”

Regis sat back a little, leaning down in front of the witcher now. He continued to hold Geralt’s gaze as he contemplated his next words. When he at last spoke, those words were indeed the ones that Geralt had been expecting, but not now. Not yet.

“Tell me about your Cirilla.”

Geralt hesitated. He had only given the barest of details about her to the man prior, that night when they had all passed a cup of mandrake cordial between them in his cabin. And seeing as how Regis would be accompanying them for some while yet, he supposed it was only fair to at last sate his curiosity. Geralt had already told Milva and Dandelion about her, after all – not everything of course, but enough. But, as Geralt knew, Regis would be observant enough to read in-between the lines. He would understand what could not be said. And that, combined with everything that had happened until this moment – each and every earth-shattering realisation that Geralt had been laid bare to that week and that morning – effectively made up Geralt's mind for him. 

So he did. He told him everything, and this time he didn’t leave anything out. Because somewhere, in some deep dark part down inside of him, Geralt wanted to tell him. He wanted to see if Regis really _could_ understand. Trust was terrifying. He wanted to give Regis a reason to prove himself. Maybe then he could decide if he truly had been wrong about him in the first place.

He was walking on thin ice, he knew. This was the bridge, and just like that morning that bridge remained burning. Now he had to decide whether he wanted to cross it. 

He started at the very beginning, of how he had helped Queen Calanthe break Duny’s curse, thus allowing Pavetta and Duny to be wed. Geralt told him about the Law of Surprise he had invoked as his reward – not entirely wholeheartedly, but more so out of a sense of irony, given how he did not believe in destiny despite all that he had witnessed that fateful evening. He told Regis of how, still disbelieving destiny’s role in his life, he had chanced upon a lone girl years later in Brokilon Forest – she was being sought by knights from her grandmother’s retinue, and Geralt had learned when he had found the snivelling, stubborn little brat with bright green eyes and ashen coloured hair that she was running away from a wedding. That wedding, as it turned out, was to be her own. She was only a child. 

Geralt cursed violently under his breath, and Regis moved to sit beside him on that rocky outcropping of the cave wall. The witcher continued. 

There had been an initial shock, though it was not altogether unexpected, when Geralt then discovered that the girl had been the Child Surprise destiny had deigned to give him. He knew it at once, in his own way; it was in the way the girl spoke, and how she acted. There was a fire within the young princess that could not, and would not ever be tamed.

And they had been drawn to each other. Perhaps from the very start. In a way she reminded him of…

_Her._

But he faltered. And moved on. 

Geralt recalled with a quiet voice how for one sheer, horrifying moment he thought that the dryads would have her; he remembered how Eithné had bade Ciri drink from the waters of Brokilon. If she did so, he knew he would lose her. The waters were magical; any girl who drank from them would lose their memories, their identities – they would become tied to the fate of the forest and take up the mantle of ‘dryad’ themselves, with new names and new purpose.

But she didn’t. Because she was special.

She was his Surprise.

They parted for a time, after that. And it would seem that fate doomed them to repeat this same course; they would reunite for a day, two days, three or more, and then soon after be forced to split apart and to endure the hardships through which they spent their time trying so desperately to return to one another.

There had been times when Geralt had wanted to renounce this role destiny had in his life. There had been times when he had wanted to renounce Ciri. This girl, the Lion Cub of Cintra whom fate had thrust so many roles upon, had no right to be bound to a lonesome wandering witcher. But it was easier said than done – and when the time came to take Ciri to Kaer Morhen, to train her in the ways of the sword and survival, he did not hesitate. Not this time.

“She became more to me,” he admitted quietly, pausing a moment in his narrative. Regis remained a silent companion beside him, watching the witcher intently with each word spoken. Geralt took comfort in this. “It terrified me at first just how much. Not as some ward or even another witcher. But more like… a daughter.”

“I see.”

If it was anyone else, Geralt would have snapped at them that no, they really didn’t. But this was Regis. And despite his earlier thoughts on the man Geralt now felt – no, he was _certain_ – that if anyone really could see, it was him. 

When he would look back on this moment in the future, Geralt would realise that this was the moment when he knew. As to what it was he would end up knowing, it was something that he had never known with such overwhelming clarity before. Trust was terrifying. Trust was all-consuming. Trust was something that he did not deserve. And Geralt, in this moment, knew this and was choosing to trust Regis – perhaps in the way that Regis had chosen to trust him. 

He continued on. He told Regis about the time Ciri spent at the witcher’s fortress, and of how and what she learned. He smiled here – she had always been a quick study. Always mischievous. Always drawing old Vesemir’s ire. But the elderly witcher loved her like a granddaughter, and Eskel, Lambert and Coën all loved her like a little sister. It was hard, Geralt later understood it, for the other witchers to see Ciri eventually leave. At the time, Geralt had convinced himself that it was for the best – her abilities had started to surface, and her prophetic fits were well beyond the skills of any of the witchers to handle or even understand. He told himself he was doing the right thing by sending her to the temple in Ellander, under Nenneke’s watchful care.

If only he had known how wrong he was.

“The rest you already know,” he finished some time later. “Been trying to get her back ever since. After Thanedd…” He sighed, shaking his head. Nilfgaard’s reach had grown too far. Racing into the empire’s very heart to get her back… it was suicide, he knew this. But he would not do any less for her. This he also knew.

“We shall get her back, Geralt,” Regis said. In his eyes was a determination that Geralt was almost inclined to believe. “You have my word.”

“Been getting your word a lot lately,” Geralt muttered, though not unkindly. He did not look away from those black eyes. The silence stretched on again, but it was not uncomfortable.

“And what of Yennefer?” Regis asked softly and cautiously after a moment longer. “You wanted to speak of her earlier on, but caught yourself before you could do so. Why?”

Geralt sighed. It was a fair question, and one that Geralt knew deserved an answer. But he did not know if he could give Regis the answer that he wanted. Not just yet, at least. Yet something still made him pause and reconsider; he looked back into calm black eyes and wondered, just for a moment...

So he decided. And answered. 

“Yennefer… Yen… is…”

And that was just it. What _was_ she?

“She’s… not so easy to define.”

“Because she is a sorceress?”

“No.” Geralt shook his head. There was a reason why he had avoided saying her name earlier; it was the very same reason for which he had trouble doing so now. With Ciri it was… easy. Easy to think about her, easy to talk about her, easy to confess to this man next to him just how important she was. But when he thought about the woman with the blazing violet eyes and shock of raven hair, and when he tried to recall the scent of lilac and gooseberries…

Sometimes he didn’t even know what Yennefer was to him, just as she herself had expressed to him many times before. They lived in a perpetual state of limbo – always pulling, always tugging at one another until one side broke apart, fell away, and was lost. It was a cycle that was doomed to be repeated, and each time it was, Geralt was left with a feeling of something that was even less than what he had started with. Geralt's last wish had effectively ensured it, and that knowledge in and of itself had just been something else for him to war with over the course of this long, long journey. He was tired, he was angry at the world and at himself, and he wanted all the uncertainty to finally end. And he told Regis as much.

He knew that he had given away too much in doing so, but Regis had proven, so far, that he remained worthy of his trust. And if Geralt could have something certain in this uncertain world, he would rather it be that. He needed something to hold onto instead of grasping at nothing. 

“It seems to me,” and Regis smiled his usual pursed smile, giving away everything and nothing in his eyes as he once again understood what Geralt could not say, “that there are some laws of nature which not even scientists, cunning folk or witchers can define.”

“What do you mean?”

“Simply that the topic gives you clear pain, and I apologise for bringing it up.”

Geralt stared at the man, seeing the way Regis' lips tightened and his face bore a grimace; barely perceptible at first glance, but the witcher still caught it anyway. He took Geralt's burdens personally, the witcher noted. Just as he took on the burdens of the women and children. Geralt wanted to ask again: _Why?_

But he did not. Because as Regis had said, there were some things that no one could define. And in the end, it was enough for Geralt to know that someone had wanted to ask and understand.

Geralt leant a hand out and hovered it over the barber-surgeon’s arm a moment. Regis eyed him carefully as he did so, and with another sigh Geralt clasped Regis' shoulder and tightened his hand in a meaningful gesture of gratitude and comfort. Regis' arm was warm under his touch. 

“Thank you.” He meant it. 

He felt Regis relax.

“You’re welcome.”

The next few minutes passed in such a way that Geralt could, if he wanted to, count the total number of heartbeats that filled the silence. His sharpened hearing allowed him to do so; he focused on the steady rhythmic pulsing of his own heart against his chest, and without really noticing it at first, he found that Regis’ heart beat a steady rhythm of its own that seemed… slower. Slower than he had ever heard from another man before, even himself.

He cast a glance at him but did not comment, not wanting to break the silence. Instead Regis ended up being the one to do so.

“Yes, Geralt?”

“Hm?”

“Is everything alright?” There was concern in his voice. 

Geralt blinked.

“So what’s your story?” he asked, ignoring the question. Regis watched him carefully again, black eyes boring into gold. “We got time. My leg’s still killing me. Doesn’t seem fair if I’m the only one participating in this heart-to-heart.”

Regis caught the dry tone in Geralt’s voice and quirked a brow at his sarcasm.

“And we couldn’t have that now, could we?”

Geralt chuckled. Regis smiled softly; for the briefest of moments it appeared as if his smile would widen, would show just the barest hint of teeth, but it did not. Just another thing that Geralt found so curious about this man.

“Now how could the story of a humble healer from Dillingen possibly interest one who leads such a fascinating life as you, witcher?” Regis’ eyes glinted with amusement. “I’m not entirely certain you’ll find it of any great import.”

“Try me.” It was another challenge; Geralt knew that his question, just like the one that Regis had asked him a moment ago, was one that the barber-surgeon would not immediately want to answer. He knew that to ask him this would be admitting aloud that he believed that they were not so different. He knew this, but still he wanted to see if Regis would answer him. He wanted to see if Regis would give him that satisfaction, because since the early stirrings of dawn that morning, Geralt had been left wanting. 

Regis knew this too, because he studied Geralt carefully a moment, just as Geralt was studying him in turn. And the witcher could see the exact moment when Regis had come to his decision. 

“As you wish.” Another smile, another flash of those black eyes. And Regis finally told him. 

A quiet man who had spent his earlier years wandering from village to village, Regis admitted that he had often preferred to keep to himself as a youth. Perhaps out of a growing desire to reach out to others he had, some fifty years past, fallen in with a group of friends who had encouraged him, over a length of time, to embrace and engage in certain activities which later led to a period of crippling addiction.

Geralt raised an eyebrow at this. When he looked at the man beside him, the last thing he would have thought of when gazing at his wizened, pale face was that such features housed inside them a man who had sunken so low so as to lose it all – himself included.

“Can’t imagine you as an addict,” he said. Regis smiled faintly.

“It is better if you don’t.”

“Was it fisstech?”

Regis sighed, and from his black eyes such a hollow look of desperation suddenly welled forth that Geralt swallowed thickly and turned away.

“No. Something far worse.”

“Shit...”

Regis nodded and did not elaborate. Geralt was thankful.

“It… gave me the courage, among other things, to express myself in ways that I could not before. Young women, in particular, were easier to approach when I was under its influence.” Regis faltered for a moment, and if Geralt did not know any better he would have thought the man looked almost embarrassed now.

“I can imagine.”

“Can you?” Regis looked at him again. Geralt did not look away this time. There was something searching in the barber-surgeon's gaze, something that quickly replaced that earlier look of despair. Regis apparently seemed to find what he was looking for in Geralt’s eyes as he soon nodded. “Yes, I believe you can.”

Something cold settled in the pit of the witcher’s stomach; once again a brief flash of black hair and violet eyes danced across his mind's eye, followed by the faint, lingering scent of lilac and gooseberries. In the silence he almost heard a djinn’s vengeful roar.

 _Under the influence_. Magic or drugs, both led to the same outcome it would seem. Geralt now knew he was right to believe that their lives really weren’t so different after all.

“Eventually, and thankfully, my nightly forays were put to an abrupt end. I had lost people I cared for, driving them away when I had simply gotten too out of hand, too out of control to see the sense that they tried to show me. There was a woman I had met at that stage of my life, a wonderful woman whom I had almost felt... comfortable with. I almost believed it was serious. But, thanks to my actions, even she fled from me in the end. I did this to her, as I did this to all the others. I didn't listen, and many a village cast me out – the men and women would look at me and all I saw was fear in their eyes, though I didn't recognise it as such until that very fear was the last thing I saw.”

“What happened?”

Regis’ eyes grew blank, and Geralt decided he didn’t like it.

“I suffered a… blackout of sorts, I suppose you might call it. A blackout that stemmed from a disagreement with the townsfolk who surrounded me the night I had finally gone too far. It led to a fight in the streets where blood painted the ground in the most horrid shade of red you can imagine. The pain I felt, the… hatred they harboured as they…” He trailed off.

“Regis—”

“Allow me to finish.” Regis held up a hand, effectively silencing the witcher. “I saw it as a sign. It was a period of time to reflect and think about my actions, about all the innocent people I had so thoughtlessly and recklessly put in danger. I was a threat. A monster. I knew, then, that I could not let myself fall down that path again. So I fled. I recovered. I waited and when I knew that I was strong enough to face my past and accept the future I must work towards, I sought my atonement in the healing arts.”

He smiled bitterly, giving an equally bitter laugh.

“Isn’t that a popular saying among humans? ‘The healer has the bloodiest hands’?”

Geralt looked down.

“Don’t see any blood on them now,” he muttered. Regis laughed again, and Geralt felt the warmth of one of those hands press lightly against his own.

“You’re kind to say that Geralt, but it does not excuse what I did. What I was capable of. I have accepted this and will continue to do so. As should you.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” and Regis stood up from where he had been seated beside the witcher, making Geralt lift his head once more to gaze at him, “that you should face the fears you yourself carry. What is it that holds you back? Or – if we are to be more precise – whom?”

Geralt was silent for a long time as he considered Regis' words. He allowed himself to pause a moment and think over everything that had been said, and everything that he had learned. He thought on the memory of black curls, violet eyes, and a scent so faint he could barely taste it on his tongue, and he was not surprised at how easy it was to compare his story to Regis' own, which, he then realised, had likely been the intention behind the man's probing questions. They had both reached a point in their lives, an absolute low, where decisions had been made and they had lost what they loved. Sometimes repeatedly.

Regis had been right from the very beginning when he had said that they were not so different after all, the two of them. 

Before he knew it, Geralt emitted a long, low chuckle. It sounded tired – almost as tired as Geralt himself felt in that moment. He then sighed and allowed himself to look back up at Regis; simply look at and study him as the silence pressed on. Regis allowed him to do so, and the barber-surgeon said nothing as he continued to return the witcher's gaze. He waited patiently, and in the few minutes that followed, Geralt again made a decision.

He found himself wondering, just for a moment. 

Up until now there had only been one other person that Geralt had ever attempted to reach out to, and because of that it was easy to compare the two, Yennefer and Regis. It was easy to do so because they were the complete opposite of one another. Geralt gazed into deep black eyes; the colour of obsidian, dark, endless. He studied that pale face; gaunt, wizened, unreadable. He followed the length of the hair that brushed against his shoulders; straight, long, grey. Even now his hair continued to hide his face in a near-constant shadow, enshrouding this man in a state of perpetual mystery. But Geralt thought to himself that perhaps Regis was not so much of a mystery to him now as he had at first thought. 

It brought him yet another conflicting sense of comfort, but Geralt did not think any further on that as his thoughts had strayed once more. 

What he noted most of all about him was the scent; heady and rich, sweet and earthy. Natural, and not magical. There was nothing magical about him – Geralt's medallion had proven that fact ten times over. And it was this that Geralt noted most about him because, he realised, it was something that was real. It wasn’t a memory he was clinging onto but not knowing why. He allowed himself to wonder again, and, just like before, it was only for a moment. 

Maybe it had been inevitable. Maybe it had been when those black eyes had looked at him with understanding, with sincerity and with an acceptance for him and his actions that damn near drove Geralt to a constant state of disbelief. Maybe it had been when that adrenaline had coursed through him as thick as the lifeblood that coursed throughout his veins. Just as it did now, once again, as they continued to calmly gaze at one another.

Or maybe it had simply been because out of everyone he had known, Emiel Regis was the first to neither expect – nor want – anything in return from him.

Maybe this was why Geralt had chosen to reach out and dare place his trust in this man's hands, just to see what would happen.

Just maybe.

These thoughts, however, soon fled Geralt's mind as quickly as they had come. He only wondered them for a moment, after all. Nothing more than that. 

Yet he could not deny that Regis was real. And perhaps he was right. Geralt was clinging to a memory that did not even make sense to him. That was what was holding him back, in more ways than one. He had been honest when he had first told Regis he was hiding many things, and this was one of them. But as to whether or not Regis ended up learning the rest was something that still remained to be seen. Geralt smiled. That would be a challenge for another place and another time, and when that time arrived, he would look back on this moment and remember. 

“You’ve never told anyone about your past before, have you?” he asked, almost amused by how strained his voice sounded. He already knew the answer, but he wanted to hear it in Regis' own words. 

Regis’ gaze softened and he shook his head.

“No. I’d wager the same could be said for you.”

Geralt nodded. It was funny how that worked out.

“We should prepare to leave. How are you feeling?” Regis extended a hand towards him.

Geralt considered him again: his hand, his posture, his words. His expression. Regis' black eyes watched him with such intensity that Geralt gathered he had not been the only one who had realised something in those few moments. The thought calmed him, though he did not know he had needed it.

“Better. Much better.” He reached up, took Regis’ proffered hand and stood up with the man’s help. His leg had thankfully lost the raging pain from earlier and he was glad that he could now put pressure on it and move. He was just set to turn and walk back to the others when he paused again. A moment passed, followed by a beat of silence, and then Geralt briefly tightened his hold on Regis' hand. Just for a moment.

Warmth and adrenaline coursed through him. Thicker than lifeblood. _Real._ He would remember that feeling in the future to come, too. 

“Let’s go.”

Regis smiled again and tightened his hold in turn, just for a moment. And then their hands fell. 

*****

Geralt watched Regis again when the company had made camp for the night. He observed as the barber-surgeon began his familiar routine of speaking to the women and children as the others prepared the tents, fed the horses and stoked the campfires. And as he watched, and as he observed, Geralt again thought back on that morning. He thought back on everything, and again found himself wondering. 

This time it was for longer than a moment.

He felt eyes on him when he eventually turned and walked back to the others but, again, he did not say anything. He wasn't even surprised when Regis joined the rest of them for dinner that night, sitting down next to Geralt and swapping anecdotes and stories with Dandelion and Zoltan as Milva kept watch and Percival slept soundly. 

This time Geralt did not try to avoid his gaze, as he had earlier that day on the road. This time he did not want to be cautious. This time he was willing to have his world shaken all over again. Because this time when Geralt met those sharp black eyes across the campfire's flames, he finally felt like he was beginning to understand. 

When he would look back on this moment in the future to come, Geralt knew that this was the moment when he had stopped wondering. He stopped wondering because he knew that he would no longer need to.

Everything became easier after that. 


	5. Chapter 5

They were being followed. 

Geralt had known this for a while; he had had his suspicions, he had had his doubts, but he had kept them to himself as the company made good time and approached the first winding bends of the Yaruga's lower banks some two days later. 

“We have to make camp here. We can’t go any further today.”

The company nodded and muttered their agreements to Milva’s words as the archer rode up to the fore, urging her black horse to a trot. Her eyes were glued to the surrounding lands and her hand was outstretched to the bow on her back; ever vigilant, nothing would be able to escape her sight as she scouted for the most ideal place to rest.

Geralt stirred from his reverie and followed her, easing Roach to a halt and holding a hand out to keep the others back behind him. The horses stamped their hooves, snorting steam from their nostrils thanks to the drop in temperature the dusk brought on. A coldness swept the glade they had entered, and the refugees huddled against one another to keep warm. Dandelion’s teeth were chattering wildly from somewhere behind him; Geralt heard his friend’s pitiable discomfort as clearly as he heard the trees and bushes rustling in the breeze. Winter was fast approaching – they could not afford any more delays after tonight. 

As always, Regis appeared the most unaffected of them all, and again he appeared to give no heed to the cold. He had drawn up beside Geralt and stood next to the witcher as he dismounted Roach; eyes alert and watchful, Regis joined Geralt in accompanying Milva’s vigil, and the three spent a moment longer waiting in utter stillness.

The minutes passed and not a soul around them disturbed the company. Only then did Milva visibly relax and come back to the group, Regis and Geralt exchanging glances with both themselves and the others to confirm the archer’s findings that they were, for the minute, out of danger and alone.

“Over there by the trees,” Milva said as she pointed to a flat strip of forest, just down a small hill. “It’s sheltered enough to keep us hidden.”

“Are you sure it’s really safe?” Dandelion’s teeth continued to chatter. Milva fixed him with an icy glare and the poet coughed and grew quiet.

“Aye, looks good enough for tonight,” Zoltan chimed in and guided the refugees forwards. “We’ll be able to get a fire going, too.”

Dandelion looked considerably more relieved.

Geralt, on the other hand, turned his head briefly to look behind him, and once again he carefully studied the road they had just come from. He waited a minute, sweeping his eyes over the trees, bushes and forest paths. He knew exactly what it was he was looking for, and thankfully it seemed that, for the moment, his worrying was needless. He felt a wave of relief sweep through him and he sighed.

When he turned back he saw that Regis had been watching him, and Geralt merely shook his head at the inquisitive quirk of the man’s brow. When he passed him by to help the others with erecting the tents, Geralt laid a hand on his shoulder and quietly informed the barber-surgeon that he would tell him later.

Regis nodded in silent understanding, but not before Geralt caught him sparing another considerate glance towards the road behind them first.

*****

It had taken some effort to set up the tents that night, but the warmth from the fire Percival and Zoltan had coaxed to life had improved the company’s mood considerably. The refugees huddled around it and the light from the flames danced across their faces as they sat and talked in hushed whispers amongst themselves. Dandelion had even taken his lute out and had begun to strum it – the first time he had done so since they had taken refuge in the abandoned mining shaft now five evenings past.

Evidently he had eventually come to believe Milva when she had said that this was the safest place they were likely to find that night, and it was clear to see by his uplifted mood and the way his fingers danced dexterously atop his lute’s strings that he was much happier for knowing it.

Zoltan had gone to take the first watch, leaving the others to listen to the music and sup on the rest of their dinner; earlier on Milva had caught some trout from the nearby stream, and Regis had offered to help her cook. Together the two had created a stew which, with a small pinch of herbs supplied by Regis, had made a meal that could not be rivalled for its taste and wholesomeness after so many days of living off what rations they could afford to spare from the saddlebags.

Even Geralt saw a need to let his guard down, no matter how briefly. He was to take the second watch after Zoltan, but before then, he allowed himself to enjoy the food, enjoy the company, and gaze deep into the fire as Milva, Dandelion and Regis talked aloud about the plans for the journey ahead.

“How much farther is this camp?” Dandelion murmured lowly under his breath, having forgone his lute for the moment in favour of finishing off his meal.

“By my estimation another four days. This is, of course, if we are able to safely navigate around the numerous Nilfgaardian patrols no doubt closing in on the roads,” Regis answered in his usual calm manner.

Dandelion sighed and his spoon clattered into his empty bowl. He laid it at his feet and picked his lute up again.

“Is it just me who feels like we’re going around in circles? How long have we been travelling for, now?”

“Shut your trap.” Milva eyed him darkly as she looked up from the arrow she had been in the middle of tracing idly with her hands. “If you’re going to complain about every step of our journey, feel free to turn back at any time.”

“I’m not complaining, it’s just… well… we don’t seem to be getting any closer to where we want to be—”

“Then go back. Milva’s right.” Their heads turned as Geralt suddenly spoke up. He looked at Dandelion impassively. “I told you to stay behind when you first got it into your head that you wanted to come with me. Arguing about this now won’t get us anywhere.”

Dandelion strummed his lute again, appearing nonplussed. 

“And I gave you my word I’d help you find Ciri. I’m not complaining, Geralt. I just don’t think we’re going the right way.”

Geralt ignored him.

“Any alternative is far better than journeying south with the emperor’s army still on the march,” Regis explained. “We may lose time, yes, but surely you remember the merchant we encountered on the roads, Dandelion, and the warnings he gave us? We cannot change our immediate course. To do so would be to see us walking into almost certain death.”

Dandelion sighed, nodding and returning his attention to his lute. He plucked a few strings, played a few chords, and then stopped altogether. He didn’t have anything else to say.

“Remind me to thank you later on,” Geralt muttered under his breath so only Regis could hear, feeling glad to be free of the poet’s grousing for the meantime.

“That’s not necessary,” Regis smiled. “It was simply the truth. Nothing more.”

Geralt shrugged and stood up. He had seen Zoltan returning from his watch, and he stretched his arms above his head, allowing the blood to rush back into his limbs before he leant down, took his swords in hand and slung them over his back.

“I’ll take watch.”

Not waiting for anyone to acknowledge him he set off at a brisk pace, needing to feel the cool air on his face once more. There were some things that should not be spoken of around the fire, and tonight, there were many such things that Geralt wanted to say.

On his way to the camp's outer boundaries he passed by the refugees, and was surprised to see that one of the children stopped as he approached. The child lifted a hand in a tentative wave, and Geralt slowly returned it, momentarily taken aback. The young boy quickly turned away and went back to the others, huddling once again into the warmth his mother provided, but the witcher remained standing there a minute longer.

If he had not had that conversation with Regis almost a week ago, he would not have believed that anyone could look at him and see a person behind the cat eyes and the twin swords. Yet even so, by seeing that child's gesture, he saw just how true the man’s words that night had been. Indeed, Regis appeared to be right concerning many things – which was something that the witcher felt he should be thankful to Regis for, because the barber-surgeon had ultimately earned Geralt's respect in the end. The witcher almost smiled to himself; his respect was something that was not so freely given, and just as equally hard to earn. 

He continued on, absorbed by this newfound reverie as he strode to the very edges of their camp. The night had drawn on by this point, and the moon shone high in the sky above, casting its silvery caress against the gathering of clouds.

He leant his back against a nearby tree, taking his medallion in hand and running his fingertips over the stylised wolf on its surface as a means to occupy himself with the time afforded him. It remained motionless in his grasp, just as he knew it would. Geralt was satisfied with this, feeling glad to finally face the prospect of peace no matter how short-lived it would be. Because, after all, he knew that something was still out there. But they were right to keep away for the time being.

So he relaxed. And waited. 

He returned his attention to his surroundings, thinking about the path ahead as his eyes darted lazily from tree to tree, and he embraced the cold as the temperature dropped even more. Each breath he exhaled passed as a fog from his lips, and the small gusts of wind that blew around him kept him awake. He had had no dreams of Ciri the past few nights, but he still vividly recalled the last nightmare he had woken up from some three days past: the nightmare of a young woman, looking so like her and yet so different, laughing and carousing with a small group of other youngsters.

No, not youngsters.

They had looked like bandits. And all of them had behaved like monsters. 

Geralt had woken up troubled that morning, and even now he still narrowed his eyes at the memory of it. 

They would reach the Chotla in four days’ time. They would say farewell to the refugees and be able to at long last continue their journey in earnest. They would have to make a turn south before the week was out, however. Geralt knew that they would have to if they wanted any hope of reaching Nilfgaard – and Ciri – before Emhyr’s armies marched wholly into the north.

He clenched his hand tightly around his medallion, so tightly that his knuckles cracked under the pressure.

_We’re not moving fast enough._

He breathed deeply and inhaled the scent of the forest around him; heady, earthy tones that helped calm his thoughts and his pounding heart. It was ironic, really. It had always been told to him that the witcher’s mutations would effectively cleanse him of all feeling. Yet here he was, as jittery as he always claimed he wasn’t. He may have to talk to Vesemir when all of this was over.

If it would ever be over.

He heard the snap of a branch some few feet away. He looked up, his pupils contracting sharply as he focused his sight on the trees ahead. He continued to wait, but nothing else moved. He breathed in deeply again, exhaling slowly once more in measured, even breaths. The sweet scent around him helped to steady his nerves.

Another thing to thank Regis for, it would seem.

“How long’re you gonna keep standing there?”

Footsteps so quiet not even the witcher could hear them drew up beside him and came to a halt. Regis joined Geralt in gazing ahead, and together they kept watch on the segment of trees through which the noise had sounded from.

“Apologies, Geralt. I didn’t wish to disturb you.”

Geralt did not look at him just yet. He eyed the trees for a minute longer, wanting to see if another branch would snap; he had known he would not have to wait very long until their pursuer made themselves known, and sometimes he hated being right. He must have given some hint of his irritation away in his expression as he saw Regis tilt his head towards him ever so slightly, the barber-surgeon watching him out of the corner of his eyes. Another few minutes passed in silence. Only when they were unable to hear anything else for a while did Geralt eventually sigh and loosen his grip on his medallion, and he finally gave Regis his full attention.

“You’re not.”

Regis almost appeared relieved. He nodded back to the source of the earlier noise.

“He's been following us for some time now. Since we all departed from Fen Carn if I'm not mistaken.”

Geralt nodded. He did not ask how Regis had known. He felt that he didn't have to. 

“Yeah. Doesn’t give up. Pity.”

“Who is he?”

Geralt paused, trying to figure out how best to answer that. Eventually he decided on the only thing he could say – the truth. He leant back against the tree again.

“Someone I shouldn’t’ve let out of my sight.” Regis did not immediately respond, and Geralt was grateful. He used the opportunity to gather his thoughts. “Ciri once told me about a man who always appeared in her nightmares... a man in a black suit of armour with a winged helmet, chasing her as Cintra burned in flame around them both.”

“I recall you mentioning how young Cirilla suffered from night terrors.”

“Then you oughta remember the reason why she has them. It’s because of him.” Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “I had the pleasure of meeting him, back on Thanedd. He came in with a band of Scoia’tael. He was wearing Nilfgaardian plate – he had orders from Emhyr to capture her and take her to the capital. She escaped him, but not before wounding him first. When I managed to catch up to him he was bleeding heavily, could barely keep his head upright… his helmet had fallen off. It had black wings. I knew who he was before I even looked at his face.”

Geralt’s lips bared into a sneer as he cast another look in the direction of the trees.

“Funny how these things work out – never quite how we expect them to, anyway. He’s only young, barely older than twenty five. But he’s intelligent, well-trained. And for a Nilfgaardian officer he sure didn’t act like one. The fear in his eyes was genuine. There was… something there. Something that made me stay my hand.” Geralt sighed, shaking his head. “He told me where she’d run off to. Wanted me to reach her before the others did. I don’t know why I believed him.”

“Interesting…”

Geralt cast Regis a sharp look, eyeing the man off as he stared pensively into the trees once more.

“What is?”

“He clearly had no intention of capturing her. If he did not go after her, but instead wished for you to find her and ensure her safety before any harm could befall her…” Regis frowned, and his black eyes clouded over in thought.

Geralt sighed again.

“Been thinking about that myself. But no Nilfgaardian I’ve ever met has acted the way he did that night. Something about him, his story, what he’s planning to do… it doesn’t add up. Doesn’t make any sense.”

“Is that why you stayed your hand that night?”

Geralt shrugged.

“Maybe. But I think it’s because of what happened after. I met him again not long after leaving Brokilon. The Scoia’tael had captured him and were preparing to give him to the Nilfgaardians. He’d been holed up alive in a coffin that was sitting on the back of a hawker’s cart. Milva, Dandelion and I had the pleasure of opening it and finding out what was inside.”

Regis’ eyes widened and he turned to face Geralt fully. Geralt saw this and smiled thinly.

“So I let him go.”

They were both quiet for a moment. Regis stepped closer to him.

“Geralt… I must ask you… if he—”

“If he catches up to us again, I don’t know what I’ll do,” Geralt interrupted, already guessing the question that Regis had been set to ask. “What, trying to tell me that I did the right thing in letting him go? Because it sure doesn’t feel like it. I hate him. He hurt Ciri. That’s something I just don’t forgive.”

Regis fixed him with a curious expression in his eyes – yet another look that Geralt could not entirely place.

“And yet you went out of your way to do just that. Not once, but twice.”

“Three times, to be exact.”

Regis arched a brow. Geralt explained quickly.

“He caught up to us again after we’d let him go at the hawker’s camp. He wanted to join us. I said no.”

“Ah. And at last the puzzle falls into place.” Regis chuckled lightly, looking like some great mystery had been solved. “Hence why he pursues us so diligently even now.”

Geralt nodded and ran a hand over his face.

“Looks like it.”

“Geralt, just a thought… but perhaps he truly is genuine in his intentions? Perhaps he wishes to follow us because he too cares to see Cirilla returned safe and sound?”

“I’ve thought about it. More than once.”

“And what have you concluded?”

Geralt dropped his hand and looked at his companion, feeling the warmth from his body as they stood close together by the trees.

“That he’s either crazy or he has a death wish. Damned long time to keep up the façade though, if he really _was_ aligned with Nilfgaard. But that can’t be the case, because at that camp it looked like the only use Nilfgaard had for him was for his head. Even the Scoia’tael were ready to cart him off right back to them.” He frowned. “He doesn’t have the look of a spy. He wouldn’t be able to keep up appearances for that long. He’s too…”

“Too what?” Regis watched him intently. Geralt swallowed as he looked into his dark eyes.

“Too honest.” He faltered. “And maybe that’s why I can’t kill him.”

Something flickered in Regis’ eyes, then. Something that distracted the witcher as he stood there, searching that penetrating gaze for… he did not know what. But… _something_. Something he needed.

In the long silence that followed, Geralt found that he had almost begun to expect the brief flood of adrenaline that pulsed inside of him whenever he could not read what was in those black eyes; he expected it, and so he was not surprised to feel it once more in that moment. It was a curious thing, he thought. Never before had he encountered a look that was so difficult to place – that very same look that Regis was giving him now, and so often had in the time that he had known him. It was that knowing look, that look that told him that they stood as equals. Yet it was also something else. Something more. Something that Geralt wanted to define. 

And as quick as the sensation was – barely there and gone again in an instant – it was enough. It was enough because the witcher saw an increasingly familiar look of understanding soon replace that fathomless stare in Regis’ eyes, and Geralt felt, as he had felt gradually more often in these later days, that he could almost begin to see what that _something_ was. 

It took him a moment to realise, then, that the heavy heartbeats he was hearing echoing in his ears weren’t just his own. He paused a moment, focusing on this. He felt surprisingly calm. 

_Well, well._

It almost gave him a sense of satisfaction. He continued to remain silent, however, and did not comment. Somehow he thought that Regis would appreciate it if he didn’t. Regis bowed his head and turned back to gaze out into the night; his hair swept past his face as he did so, obscuring his expression and giving away nothing. Geralt did likewise, breaking his gaze, and together they remained standing guard at the camp's borders for some time. 

The companionable silence was pleasant, and Geralt was again struck by how easy it was. 

Everything, after all, seemed to have become easier after allowing himself to place his trust in this man. 

They would converse more often and more freely, the both of them – particularly on nights such as this when the company had made camp and were preparing to retire. It was liberating, in its own way, to speak quietly and to learn piece by piece what they both chose to reveal to one another, and Geralt was reminded of this as they stood there now. 

It was easy, he thought again. Much easier.

And it was easier because for all the uncertainty, this was the closest thing to something certain that he had grasped at in a long, long time.

Maybe he really had been wrong about him in the beginning. 

Eventually, however, and as with all things, the relative peace came to an end. Geralt stirred when he felt Regis move beside him, and he turned his head to see the barber-surgeon pushing away from the tree that he, too, had been leaning against until now. 

“I shan’t keep you any longer. I’ve already taken up enough of your time.” 

“Stay.” It was an automatic response, and the word passed from Geralt's lips before he could think it through, but somehow Geralt did not think that Regis minded. The witcher, for one, felt the man's presence was far preferable to that of facing the rest of his watch alone. 

Regis smiled faintly but shook his head, at last choosing to look Geralt in the eyes again.

“Alas, I’d very much love to. But as you well know, the women and children in the camp need me. I must see to their health and accommodation for the night.” His words brought Geralt a certain degree of disappointment, but the witcher nodded. He understood. Regis cast him another look, one that again gave away everything and nothing as he held the witcher's gaze for another long, quiet moment.

“Though…” Regis paused just as he was set to turn around, and Geralt gave him his complete undivided attention, “I would like the opportunity to do so some other time. Later on.”

Geralt nodded once.

“See you, Regis.”

He could imagine the smile widening on Regis’ lips as the man departed and walked back towards the camp.

“Until later, Geralt.”

The witcher watched him until the barber-surgeon all but disappeared, and he sighed softly as he turned his gaze back to the night. Alone now with nothing but his own thoughts, he found he had become hyperaware of his solitude amongst the trees. The only sign that Regis had actually been here with him was the faint lingering scent of herbs and spices that still remained, and Geralt, as fascinated as he was with the black cloaked individual who so eagerly wanted to help them and receive nothing in return, allowed his thoughts to drift ever further.

He reflected on that feeling of fascination, just as he reflected on the respect and the admiration that he felt he could now freely admit that Regis had earned. He reflected on many things, and found that there was something else there, too. Something that he had only felt once before, when he had encountered a djinn and had uttered a wish that, at that moment in time, had mattered more to him than anything else. But that wish had cost him, as would this in the end. He knew that. He knew it because he was grasping for something certain in this uncertain world, and certainty, like fate, treated nothing kindly. He had only to think of Yennefer and Ciri – these two women whom he was now hunting tooth and nail, steel and silver for – to know this.

Because nothing was certain. 

He closed his eyes and let the breeze caress his face, once again feeling grateful for the cold. He allowed it to temporarily clear his mind and ease the tempest in his head.

The hours passed in a welcoming haze as he distracted himself. He watched and waited as the moon marked its course in the sky; midnight was now upon them. In the silence he heard only the nocturnal creatures that made this part of the world their home, and his medallion did not even tremble. He would be finishing his watch soon and Milva would be taking his place.

He was tired. And bored. 

So much so, in fact, that that was probably why he did not even move when the man approached him cautiously from the shadows of the night. His plate clanked noisily with each step; Geralt was sure that even those from the camp could hear him if they were keeping their ears open.

The witcher opened his eyes when the intruder had paused and Geralt merely looked at him, unblinking, unmoving. The man could see this, too, for he kept his distance and did not even try to mask the nervousness in his blue eyes.

They stood there, two foes, watching each other. Waiting.

Geralt ended up being the first to break the silence.

“Expected you’d be by earlier on.” He motioned to the trees from where the Nilfgaardian had emerged from. “Picked yourself a shit place to camp. You didn’t even try to keep your distance.”

The Nilfgaardian shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, but Geralt had to hand it to him; despite the unease, despite the discomfort and the fear in the young man’s face, he saw something else there, too. Dogged determination. He would hear him out, then. For Regis’ sake.

Geralt almost smiled to himself. He was sure that Regis would get a kick out of that when he told him.

“Should I have?”

Geralt regarded him carefully. The man spoke without even the barest hint of a Nilfgaardian accent, something that had caught his notice before.

“If you remember the girl whose life you almost destroyed, then yes. You should have.”

The man looked like he was about to say something but stopped himself at the last minute. A fire burned in his eyes.

“I… had no intention of—”

“Not interested in your excuses. You oughta be more worried about me right now.” Geralt sighed. “Why’re you here? I told you before I never wanted to see you again.”

The man took a step closer.

“My name is Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach. And as I told _you_ before, witcher, I wish to help you.”

They held each other’s gaze. Geralt sensed a mutual dislike in their eyes. He smirked; that was good enough for him.

“What makes you think you can help us? Do you have some plan on how to get into the south while the war’s on? Going to sell us to Emhyr the second we cross the border, Nilfgaardian?” 

This time the fire burned so brightly in Cahir’s eyes that Geralt was almost impressed.

“I am no Nilfgaardian.”

“Then what are you?”

“Someone who wants to do what is right.”

Geralt arched a brow.

“Funny. We’ve got a few people like that in our company already,” he murmured, one man in particular coming to the forefront of his mind. “The position’s already filled. Go home.”

Cahir laughed – a short, sharp bark of a sound that carried a lifetime of bitterness within it.

“I have about as much of a home as you do at this point,” he muttered. “So, no. I will not leave. I’m staying, witcher. There may yet come a time when you’ll need my aid.”

“I doubt it.”

“If you truly did you would have killed me when we first met. You are more than capable of it.”

Geralt paused, sizing the man up. He had good form – clearly from a military background, as Geralt had already known. His shoulders were set and his expression was grim; he was also more than capable of killing, should the need arise. But it didn’t. The Nilfgaardian did not even have his sword with him. Perhaps that was his saving grace.

“I don’t trust you.”

Cahir nodded.

“I know.”

“You’re not going to bother explaining yourself, are you?”

“You do not want me to. So I won’t.”

It was Geralt’s turn to nod – that was fair. The kid was observant, too. The witcher chanced a look behind him at the direction of the camp; he heard footsteps and knew that his time was up. Milva would be arriving at any minute.

He looked back at Cahir and gave a single short, sharp nod. He made his decision, one that he hoped he would not regret. 

“You’ll continue to follow at a distance for now. Then we’ll see if there’s any use for you.”

Surprise flickered across the young man’s face but was quickly smoothed over. It was clear that he wasn’t expecting to go down without a fight. Geralt even surprised himself in that regard.

The Nilfgaardian who claimed he was not a Nilfgaardian faltered, his hand rising slowly from his side. It appeared he was set to shake on it, but as Milva’s steps drew nearer and louder he withdrew. All he offered Geralt was a single curt nod and fell back into the trees. Geralt watched him leave.

Milva waved him off when she arrived, and if she suspected that something had happened, that something had taken place here after sensing the remnants of the tense atmosphere in the clearing, she did not comment on it. Geralt was grateful and bade her good night, eager to catch up on what little sleep he could be afforded before the dawn arrived.

All in all, he felt that his night could have gone much worse.

*****

Sleep did not come easily to him.

It never did these days – he was always on edge, always on guard, and that sense of unease grew even more so the further east they went. So it came as no surprise to Geralt that he was unable to close his eyes after entering his tent and removing his swords and leather jacket, leaving himself dressed in his undershirt and breeches as he prepared to retire for the evening.

He wiled away the minutes by gazing up at the canvas above him as he laid out on his bedroll. He could hear the crickets outside and the whispering of the few refugees who also couldn’t sleep at this ungodly hour of the morning.

He did not even know what time it was; it had been just after midnight when he had returned from his watch, but a small glimpse of the outside world in-between the gaps of the tent did not give him a very thorough indication of how close it was now to dawn's first light. So he just lay there. And again he waited.

He had closed his eyes and had been sifting through the events of the day over in his mind when he at last heard movement; the sound of the canvas being pulled back followed by near-silent footsteps entering the dim cover of his lodging for the night was the only indication that someone had disturbed the witcher’s relative peace. That, and the steadily familiar scent that was so unlike lilac and gooseberries.

He opened his eyes and was not surprised in the slightest to be greeted with the sight of a black-eyed stare focused directly on him. Geralt could see just as well as any other nocturnal creature in the dark; it was a rather useful side-effect of his mutations that never failed to fill the rest of his companions with unease. All of them, that is, except for the barber-surgeon, who interestingly enough seemed to know instinctively where Geralt was looking, as their eyes met without fail in the pitch blackness of the tent.

Geralt did not put any thought behind it, however. He was too tired to. Besides, he had learned long ago, as far back as the very first night that they had met, that Regis was anything but easy to define and the one exception to everything.

“Ever vigilant even in his sleep. Quite vampire-like, in fact,” Regis smiled, arching a brow at Geralt’s state of awareness. Geralt flashed a grin, though it felt more like a grimace. _Interesting comparison._

“Wasn’t asleep. But thanks for the compliment.”

He received a nod for that and he watched with mild interest as Regis began to unclasp his black robes, folding them neatly and placing them atop his pack which was lying alongside Geralt’s swords.

The familiarity of such an action was calming in its own way. They had shared a tent on the road before, a few nights prior. Yet even then, there had still been something domestic in the way that each item of clothing was removed and each set of personal belongings was given its own space. Dandelion, for example, would have no cares for boundaries. Geralt would often wake to annoyance to see that the poet’s belongings and various books and journals would be thrown into Geralt’s own bags of potions and alchemy supplies. The only thing that was treated with any modicum of respect and decency was the lute that Dandelion had been gifted by Toruviel in Dol Blathanna.

Milva, too, did not put much stock in respect for her belongings. She would throw her packs haphazardly into the corner, her bow and quiver laid out atop them. But, Geralt had had to give her credit, she did so in such a way that she was able to retrieve everything in the blink of an eye should they suddenly become faced with the prospect of attack by bandits, or if the need to flee in the middle of the night overcame the group.

Regis, on the other hand, was methodical. He was precise. And he went to great lengths to ensure that everything was where it should be, and Geralt found that he appreciated it. He continued to watch for a moment longer as Regis slung his satchel off of his shoulders and laid it atop his robe, and then continued to dress down until he was clad in his tunic and leggings.

Instead of lying down on his own bedroll and retiring to sleep, however, the man then turned and crossed his arms over his chest. Geralt looked up at him.

“Are you troubled by the nightmares again?”

The witcher wasn’t expecting the question, but he did not let his surprise show on his face. He shook his head.

Geralt had told Regis of the unsettling vision of Ciri that he had been greeted with on the morning he had had that nightmare; Regis had noticed, as was his wont, that something had distracted the witcher when he had attempted to go about his rounds of the camp after waking from that fitful sleep. So Geralt had told him, if only to see what Regis would say in response. The man had remained silent at first, but when he had at last spoken it had been to ask the one question that Geralt had not expected:

_"What will you do?"_

He did not treat Geralt's fears lightly. He did not ask if Geralt truly believed in the visions he was being subjected to. He had done none of that. Instead, he had treated his concerns with respect, and thus he had, once again, earned Geralt's respect in turn. So Geralt had answered in the only way that he could: truthfully. 

_"I need to act."_

Regis had nodded, and Geralt had felt a weight fall from his shoulders that he had not known he had been carrying. He was reminded of that moment now as he looked back at the man watching him patiently in the darkness.

"No. Had a lot on my mind, is all.” He felt his lips twitch upwards as he eventually answered Regis' earlier question. Regis nodded, seeming satisfied with the response. He remained standing, however. Geralt considered him again for a moment, and he asked a question of his own. 

“And what about you? The refugees keep you busy,” he pointed out. “Haven't seen you get any sleep yet, either. Must be tiring.”

Regis smiled faintly. 

“I appreciate your concern for my wellbeing.” Geralt continued to watch the man as Regis strode over to his bedroll and at last sat down. The barber-surgeon was silent again for a moment, but Geralt had already confirmed all that he had needed to. Regis had sounded tired. Well and truly tired. Geralt pitied him. As if sensing this, Regis offered another smile on his thin lips and he hastened to explain. “But I find it no trouble. They need help and I wish to be the one to give it. What is that popular phrase amongst your youth? ‘No rest for the wicked’?”

“Popular among everyone these days,” Geralt muttered. Regis hummed in agreement.

They lapsed into a companionable silence again. Neither made any efforts to sleep, or feign sleeping.

“I spoke to the Nilfgaardian after you left,” Geralt began after a while, answering the question that he knew, somehow instinctively, had been the one that Regis had initially wanted to ask. He felt black eyes bore into him. “Well, he claims he’s not a Nilfgaardian. Pretty damned determined about it, in fact.”

“Am I right in guessing that neither of you came to blows?”

Geralt chuckled, hearing the amusement in Regis’ voice. He chose to ignore the jibe.

“Decided to pay me a visit. He just wanted to talk.”

“I see.”

Geralt heard movement beside him and he turned his head to see Regis shifting position where he sat, settling down more comfortably on his bedroll. Regis draped an arm loosely over a bent knee as he watched Geralt calmly.

“And did you?”

“Get the feeling you already know the answer to that.”

“I do. But I still wish to hear it in your own words.”

Geralt chuckled again.

“Might regret that sooner or later.”

Regis' smile widened.

“Then I shall readily bear the consequences, never you fear.”

They were close together now; Geralt could feel the heat from Regis’ body, and he slowly dragged his gaze over the relaxed posture of the other man. For someone who had looked drained and worn out to the very edge a moment ago, he appeared to be more awake, more at ease now. Geralt wondered about that, and he allowed himself a moment more to look into those patient black eyes before choosing at last to respond.

“I told him he could follow. From a distance.”

“You let him go again.”

Geralt nodded.

“I did.”

Regis paused, and a thoughtful look crossed his pale features. Geralt had the distinct impression the other was trying once again to read him, though he could not possibly imagine what more Regis could glean from him. There were only so many emotions that Geralt was capable of producing on his face, after all – just something else to thank his mutations for.

But then again it was said that the night often revealed what lay hidden during the day, and this time Regis appeared to wear his emotions on his sleeve; open admiration was in his eyes now, as clear to Geralt as the moonlight that seeped through the open flaps of the tent around them – an admiration of such intensity that Geralt did not think that anything up until now could compare to it. 

“Thank you.”

“For what?” Geralt blinked. Regis smiled again. This time he managed to look secretive as he did so, as if something about Geralt’s words had answered some unknown question that only Regis had wanted to ask.

“For continuing to surprise me.”

“You must’ve set a low bar for me to start with if I keep surprising you this much.”

“On the contrary, Geralt. Rarely have I ever set my bars higher.” As light-hearted as his tone of voice was, there was a seriousness to Regis’ words that gave Geralt further pause. Indeed, the man did not appear to be in any mood to jest tonight.

Geralt thought many things in that moment. He grew still where he lay. Again Regis seemed to sense the direction Geralt's thoughts had taken him, and the barber-surgeon turned his head, at last breaking his penetrating gaze away from the witcher. He paused once more, and Geralt had the distinct impression that Regis, too, was trying to choose his next words carefully. 

He did not have to wait long to hear what those words were. 

"There are many things in this world which intrigue me, but none of them have yet to hold a candle to how fascinating you alone remain," Regis explained slowly, and then elicited a quiet huff of laughter. "I thought that nothing could surprise me anymore." He cast his gaze back to the witcher, and Geralt immediately recognised the familiar searching, knowing look he saw there; the look that threatened to disarm him completely. "I'm glad that I was wrong."

Geralt said nothing at first. He merely looked at the man – simply looked – and allowed those words to sink in. He was tempted to say that he was flattered, or perhaps even to deflect the conversation away from himself as he normally so often would have, but he decided against it at the last minute. He instead settled on honesty. 

“Sounds familiar."

He knew, just as he had known when they had sat together in that old mining cavern a week past, that he had revealed too much; he knew that he had admitted aloud that he, too, had wondered many things about the man beside him, and that he was not ashamed to admit at long last that he had perhaps been wrong as well. But he ignored those particular thoughts because some part of him, again, wanted to see how Regis would respond. Perhaps that was why he had wanted to grasp for something certain in the first place. 

Regis did not look away. 

"Ironic, isn't it?" He was quiet. So quiet that the witcher had to almost strain his ears to hear him. But when he did, Geralt dared to elicit a laugh of his own. That had been another response that he had not been expecting. Regis offered him the barest hint of a smile: he knew that, too. 

They lapsed once more into silence. 

In that silence, Geralt felt another tug of uncertainty pull at him. He thought on the days they had spent together, and the words they had shared. He thought on the way in which Regis had so unerringly guessed at, analysed, and attempted to tear down each of his walls layer by painstaking layer. And Geralt, in the end, had let him. He had let him because some part of him wanted to clutch at something that until now everything – and almost everyone – had denied him: that sense of certainty, because in this world, nothing was certain. 

He sighed. And thought again. 

It was better, he felt, to grasp at that fleeting sense of certainty now. He had spent too long chasing regrets and memories that made no sense; what he needed above all, as he had told Regis before, was to act.

In the silence he heard the echo of a too-slow heartbeat alongside his own. 

Geralt turned his attention momentarily back towards the moonlight shining through the gaps in the tent walls. 

Everything, after all, had become easier. And perhaps it was easier in knowing that Regis, too, had been wrong about him in the end. Perhaps it was easier in knowing that Regis, too, had wanted to grasp at something certain in this uncertain world.

Perhaps that was why it had become easier for Geralt to stop wondering, and start wanting instead. 

If only for a moment. 

“Then let’s make a deal," Geralt continued at length, and he felt Regis' sharp gaze settle once more upon him. He almost smiled, and he recalled the first night that they had met. "Information for information. How about it, Regis? I’m not the only fascinating person here, after all.”

This would be the challenge, the moment where Geralt was inviting Regis to keep guessing, to keep analysing, to keep tearing apart at each and every layer of him to see what more hid beneath. He was hiding many things, after all. He wanted to see if Regis truly desired to know them. He wanted to see many things about this exceptional man.

He heard movement beside him again, but Geralt did not need to turn his head to know that Regis had now lain himself out on his bedroll, gazing at the barest slivers of moonlight that illuminated the tent, just as Geralt was.

“You may regret that sooner or later.” Regis’ voice suddenly sounded hesitant, tentative even. But there was something else there; he was issuing a challenge of his own. Geralt closed his eyes. He appreciated the warning.

He made up his mind.

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Later on when he would reflect on this moment, Geralt still did not fully know who had moved first. All he would remember was the silence in that tent, the sharp, tense moment of unknowing as a decision was made – and then the warmth. Solid and _real_.

Regis’ lips were firm as their mouths touched – lightly, cautiously at first, testing the waters. Then the ripples formed in those waters, and the kiss, though neither hungry nor forceful, stirred something within Geralt. Something that he knew would settle deep inside, worm its way into the very depths of him and plunge down like a dagger into his heart. 

Pressing further into that warmth he allowed himself only the briefest of tastes, leaving himself wanting for more, but at a later date; another time, another place. Firm lips tilted ever so slightly upwards, and Regis' smile was every indication that Geralt was not alone in that desire as the barber-surgeon responded to him willingly. A warm hand, almost as warm as the brief caress of their mouths, came to a rest along Geralt’s cheek and the witcher pulled back, still allowing Regis to cup his jaw as Geralt breathed, licked his lips, savoured the taste and the warmth and gazed calmly into sharp black eyes.

Adrenaline pulsed in his veins, in his blood. 

He again heard the uneven pounding of a too-slow heartbeat alongside his own.

Neither of them said anything, but there was nothing to say in that moment. Not yet, at least. But when Geralt did at last manage to bid Regis a quiet good night, his voice hoarse, gravelly, he – to his great amusement later on – discovered that it was the best sleep he had had in ages.

He did not dream of Ciri, nor did he wake up plastered in his own sweat as he dreamt of ghostly wraiths pursuing her.

Instead his sleep was deep, dark, dreamless, and on the very edge of his senses he could recall the taste of that warmth that was the beginning of his undoing – this he knew.

And above all, it felt right.

It almost felt certain. 


	6. Chapter 6

Milva was sick again that morning.

No sooner had the tents been packed away and the horses been saddled up had the archer gripped her stomach and rushed off into the bushes. The company looked on in discomfort; these spells of sickness of hers were becoming more regular occurrences as of late, leaving both Zoltan and Dandelion to wonder if any of the fish they had caught over the past few days had been infected with some sort of virus.

As the pair were debating over whether anyone else had felt ill after their evening meals, Geralt watched on in silence as Regis calmly followed the woman and remained with her until she at last re-emerged. She appeared paler than normal, but nonetheless considerably better than before.

He remembered what Regis had told him once before concerning his patients’ privacy, and so the witcher remained silent and only nodded when Regis walked past him and quietly suggested that Milva be kept from scouting ahead of the group. She would be better off remaining on horseback and avoiding any strenuous activity for a while, he had said, and Geralt readily agreed.

Milva, on the other hand, did not take to the news kindly – as was to be expected.

“Like hell,” she snapped when they told her. “Do you see anyone else doing a better job than me in these woods? I know the area!”

“As do I,” Regis calmly replied. “And as does Geralt. We shall be fine, my dear.”

She looked like she was set to argue further, and she likely would have if Geralt had not stepped in.

“Listen to him, Milva,” he said. “You can’t expect to play lookout when you can barely stand in the morning. Wait until you feel better.”

It took a while, but the fight eventually died from her eyes. She sighed, rubbed her forehead with her hand and pulled at her hair, and finally she agreed.

She rode alongside Geralt when they later departed, and she waited until the others were well out of earshot before turning to him.

“Do you still trust him?”

Geralt did not need to see where she was pointing to know who she was referring to. But he did so anyway, running his eyes over Regis’ figure at the vanguard of their company. There were many thoughts that ran through his mind in response to Milva’s bold inquiry. He ignored them for the moment.

“I do.”

Milva blinked at the abruptness of his reply.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

She was quiet for a long time. Geralt looked at her from out of the corner of his eye; he knew that she was still annoyed at being told to rest and stay behind with the others, but there was also something else in her gaze – a kind of acceptance when she, too, looked at the barber-surgeon.

“He’s too good,” she said again, reminding Geralt of that conversation they had had so long ago. Geralt nodded.

“Yeah.”

Milva paused again for a moment, her brows furrowed in thought. She eventually continued. 

“Then in that case, witcher, I trust him too.”

“Smart decision. He's the only one who can help you when you’re sick in the mornings.”

The archer frowned, and a dark look entered her eyes at Geralt’s words.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

“I do know.”

She sighed.

“I was wrong about him,” she admitted roughly, her voice almost dropping into a whisper as she shifted awkwardly in her saddle. Her horse snorted and tossed its head. “In the beginning. That’s all I wanted to say.”

Geralt looked back at Regis’ form, continuing to watch him from a distance. He was silent again, though his thoughts were anything but. He remembered all too well the night before.

_I was wrong about him in the beginning, too._

He knew that he would be thinking that more often than not, now. Perhaps in some way it reminded him that _something_ in that moment had felt real. More certain. He sighed. 

“Maybe you should be telling him that.”

Milva shrugged.

“Maybe. And maybe you should tell him, too.”

Geralt paused again. Despite not wanting to admit it to himself, she had raised a very valid point. Because even though he could readily tell someone else, he had never actually said those words aloud to the one man he should have in the first place.

Regis was, after all, the one who had put his trust in Geralt first. He had admitted as much.

But, then again – and here Geralt’s eyes glazed over in thought once more – some people valued action over words. The witcher himself was very much an example of the former. He thought back to last night, to the vulnerability of the moment – the uncharted leap into the abyss and the resurfacing from its depths as he’d pulled away and _really_ looked into the man’s eyes.

He trusted him. And the extent of that trust was something that he was almost frightened to admit to himself. Because, as he had known the minute he had grasped at that first teasing taste of certainty, it was something that would threaten to undo him. That, in and of itself, would be the greatest challenge of all. 

“Maybe I already have…” 

If Milva was going to comment on Geralt’s cryptic words as the witcher slowly spoke them, she thankfully did not in the end. As it was, all she offered him was a quirk of an eyebrow and a confused glance between Geralt and the barber-surgeon at the front of their company before lapsing into her usual silence again. 

It was the last time he would have that conversation with someone, Geralt decided when they stopped to rest a few hours later, finding enough shade on the side of the road to replenish their supplies and rest themselves and their horses before continuing again. After all, actions _did_ speak louder than words.

He learned that the hard way when the bandits attacked.

*****

“Geralt, do you get the feeling we’re being followed?” Dandelion wrung his hands nervously in front of him as he stooped down in front of the fire. His frantic head movements as he glanced from left to right were almost comical.

Geralt slung the buck off of his shoulder, dumping the carcass on the ground in front of the poet and giving Dandelion a fright as the man quickly scooted backwards and fell onto his rump. Geralt smirked.

“Hey!”

“Be quiet.” Geralt calmly pulled out his skinning knife, the blade glinting cruelly in the light of the fire as he prepared to plunge it down. Dandelion’s face turned a humorous shade of ashen grey and he bolted upright.

“Geralt, do you really have to—”

“You make too much noise. If we’re being followed you’d have already given us away by now. Shut up.”

Dandelion looked like he was about to be sick. He mumbled something – Geralt could not pick out the words as they were garbled together almost unintelligibly – and the poet made a point to stand as far away from the witcher as possible whilst he worked on preparing their evening meal.

Inwardly, Geralt was impressed at Dandelion’s almost uncharacteristic show of observation. They were indeed being followed, but up until this very moment Geralt had been convinced that only he and Regis had been aware of him.

With Milva left in charge of overseeing the women and children with Zoltan and Percival that night – again on the recommendation of both the barber-surgeon and the witcher as her condition had not improved greatly over the past few days – Geralt had taken it upon himself to hunt for further rations and supplies. He did not have Milva’s skill with a bow and arrow, but he had patience and experience both in setting bait and lying in wait for the kill. As did the man who had been closely following the course of their journey since Brokilon, it turned out – which is when Geralt had once again encountered the company's relentless pursuer. 

It had been an entirely unintended, though not fully unexpected meeting.

Geralt had been eyeing off the buck that had been grazing in the cover of the forest; a proud, strong-limbed creature that had enough meat on it to keep the entire company fed well into the week. He had been about ready to throw one of his witcher’s bombs, one that would release a silent vapour that would disorient the animal and immobilise it, allowing him to make an incision deep into the buck’s heart with his knife without startling it, when an arrow shot through the beast and pierced it cleanly through its lung before he could so much as move.

Seeing as Milva was under strict instruction to not leave the camp, that arrow and the hand that had guided it could only prove the work of one other person.

Geralt, though annoyed, found himself rather impressed with the shot.

“I did not know you were there.”

The witcher stood up from his cover in the bushes, showing his presence in full to the not-Nilfgaardian who called out to him as he eased his way over to the carcass; a bow was in one hand, and a quiver half-full of mismatched arrows sat on his back. He had evidently been salvaging what he could find from the corpses of the fallen soldiers they had been passing on the roads.

Geralt gave a noncommittal grunt in reply.

_Smart guy._

“Didn’t know you were that skilled with a bow. Seems they train soldiers in everything in Nilfgaard.”

Cahir knelt down by the buck, but Geralt still saw the grimace on the young man's face regardless. He made a point to ignore Geralt's thinly veiled insult. 

“Speaking of skills, I did not think that bombs were a commonplace hunting tool.”

Geralt looked down at the small orb he still held in his hand; Cahir had seen it when the witcher had approached him. A look of mild fascination was in the man’s eyes.

“Witcher’s specialty up in Kaer Morhen,” Geralt muttered. “Usually used for fishing.”

Cahir almost looked amused.

“Do fish normally come in this size at your witcher’s keep?”

Geralt tucked the bomb away in the pouch he wore at his side.

“Depends what Lambert’s been feeding them with.” He nodded to the buck. “Nice clean angle. Quick death. Relatively painless. You’d give Milva a run for her money.”

“I will take that as a compliment,” Cahir announced as he removed the arrow and stood up. “I already found its mate. You can have this one.”

“Awfully generous of you.” Geralt narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

“I already have all I need.” Cahir shrugged. “Besides, I was waiting for you – or someone from your company – to come out here.”

“Oh?” Geralt crossed his arms over his chest, not liking where this was going. Cahir nodded solemnly.

“Yes. I came to tell you that we are being followed.”

A beat of silence passed.

“‘We’?”

“A group of men – deserters – have been on our trail since this morning,” Cahir continued, ignoring Geralt’s obvious ire at him including himself among their company’s numbers. “My guess is they broke away from their main contingent by the Yaruga’s banks. I passed the remains of a trader’s wagon on my way here. He was meant to be delivering supplies to their camp.”

“They killed him and took the supplies with them,” Geralt concluded, still narrowing his eyes at Cahir. “Whose army did they belong to?”

Cahir looked down at the buck. He hesitated for only an instant, but it was enough to confirm what Geralt had already been fearing. 

“Nilfgaard's.”

The silence continued much longer than before, until it became so unbearable that Cahir chanced a glance upwards. When he saw the look in the witcher’s eyes he took a noticeable step back. Geralt was livid.

“Funny, that,” Geralt said slowly, quietly. “Seems rather convenient if you ask me.”

“You think I led them here? To follow us?” Quickly recovering, this time Cahir was on the offensive. His voice rose ever so slightly in his anger.

“First of all, there’s no _us._ And secondly, seems about as good a guess as any. They’re after _you_ – or did you already forget they wanted you on the back of that wagon? Can’t think of any better reason to get back into Emhyr’s good graces than by capturing the soldier he’s hunting.” Geralt bore his eyes into Cahir's own, daring the soldier to argue against his logic. 

Cahir did not say anything for a while, instead choosing to match Geralt’s accusing glare with one of his own. Eventually he sighed.

“I do not fear whatever fate the emperor has in store for me,” he said slowly. “I have told you before, witcher, and I will tell you again – I am not Nilfgaardian.” He narrowed his eyes. “There is a war on. Any deserter from any army could have chanced upon us – it just so happened to be Emhyr’s. You are using baseless speculation and accusations to fuel the questions you already know the answers to.”

Geralt turned away. Cahir pressed on.

 _“If_ these men are after me, then I will pay the price in full, I assure you. I will not let any harm come to your company.”

Geralt continued to remain silent. Cahir growled and threw his hands up.

“I gave you my word, witcher! I know you do not trust me, but at least trust in my warning: there are men following your company, and as soon as they see the women and children you have with you, they will be upon you like rabid dogs on a carcass!” There was the sound of something thudding against the ground, as if Cahir had kicked the lifeless buck to add emphasis to his words. “I have seen what men are capable of in war, as no doubt you yourself have, too. Even the archer, the bard and the surgeon you have with you will earn them a great deal of coin when they sell them off with the refugees.”

Geralt rounded on him so swiftly that Cahir almost drew his bow. The witcher heard the soldier’s heart pounding in a rapid staccato that was almost dizzying. Geralt did not care, however, and levelled the man with a gaze that had him gulp and swallow. Cahir's final words had touched a raw nerve within him.

Because he was right. Geralt was putting them all in danger the longer they stood here deliberating. The women, the children… Milva, Dandelion… _Regis…_

Geralt's throat tightened and he forced the thought out of his mind just as immediately as it had appeared. Despite all this, however, he was grateful to Cahir; after all, if Geralt needed another indicator that this man really _did_ seem honest in his intentions to aid them rather than sell them out to Emhyr’s troops, then this was the clearest indicator yet.

He inhaled deeply, slowly, and then exhaled. And then he grew calm.

“Thanks for the warning,” he said quietly, so quietly that it appeared that Cahir did not hear him properly at first. Then, after assessing the situation and seeing that he was no longer the subject of Geralt's further ire, Cahir straightened himself up, squared his shoulders, and offered the witcher a curt nod.

“If they’ve been on our trail since this morning I’m guessing they’d only be a couple of hours behind us now. Am I right?” Geralt asked. 

Cahir nodded.

“Yes.”

Geralt stooped down to pick the buck up from the forest floor and he threw it lithely over his shoulder.

“Stay close by for tonight. When the fighting starts I want you to make sure you keep the others from harm.”

Cahir looked at him.

“I was once an officer,” he said. “I know how to act as vanguard.”

“Good. You’ll get a chance to prove it later on.”

He was about to turn around again when he was stopped by Cahir calling out to him.

“Why the sudden change in heart, witcher?”

Geralt looked at him over his shoulder.

“Too many lives are on the line. Lives I care too much for,” he said, quite seriously. “Don’t fool yourself, Nilfgaardian. I’m only doing this out of necessity.” He turned back around before Cahir could so much as speak. A tight smile quirked at the corners of Geralt's lips. “Besides, you’re right. And I believe you.”

He had left without waiting for a reply.

*****

There was no breeze that night, and the stillness in the air brought with it an accompanying humidity which the company found more preferable compared to the last few evenings of piercing cold. Milva eyed the buck with appraisal when she had returned from where she had been looking over the refugees, and she commented on the size of the beast with delight. She was in much better spirits now, and Geralt was glad to see it. The buck had then been skinned and the rations had been sorted, and everyone was able to enjoy a hearty broth with the meat they were willing to spare for their dinner. 

As he ate his stew Geralt returned his attention to the group: their little ragtag gang that ate, laughed, and talked together. Their voices carried far through the forest that night, and he would warily watch every flicker of a shadow and every movement made out of the corner of his eye. He saw the last fading streaks of dusk in the sky above and knew it would not be long now.

He would have to find a way to tell them. And tell them soon.

That was the crux of the problem, however. How would he tell them all that they were being followed? That they would likely have to prepare for a fight before the night was out? Some, like Milva and Zoltan, would be easy to approach – they were battle-hardened, the both of them. But then there came the issue of the refugees, Percival and Dandelion. Dandelion had already suspected that trouble was afoot, but Geralt knew it was likely that he had seen or heard Cahir move about in the wilderness earlier on. Cahir had been told to stay close to the camp, after all.

But Dandelion was no warrior. Neither was Percival. And the women and children could not be harmed at all costs. The company had no lodgings or huts to hide them in. Their tents would not be big enough to safely house them all while the fight began. Their best hope would be that what meagre few of the group they could spare to fight would far outnumber the deserters that were on their trail.

Geralt himself, Milva, Zoltan and Cahir.

The witcher sighed. It would have to be enough.

But there was one person that he had not included in this number, because even now he did not entirely know how he should approach him on the matter.

Regis was exceptional, hard to define. He had always been so, and Geralt felt that now more than ever. He looked around – the man’s absence at dinner had not gone unnoticed and weighed heavily on him. The last he had seen the barber-surgeon had been just before he had gone off to hunt for the buck. Yet Geralt knew, somehow instinctively, that Regis had not gone far; if he wished to be found he would allow himself to be found, it was as simple as that.

And Geralt, without really knowing why, believed that Regis was not attempting to hide.

He was here. It was just the matter of approaching him. Because out of all of those present, Geralt could approach him with almost as much ease as it took to breathe – he had known that almost from the very start, too. The thought drew a small smile across his lips and he stood up. He owed him a long overdue conversation anyway.

He cast another quick look over everyone gathered around the campfire, and then he walked off.

He knew that Regis had not been by the tents. That only left one other possible conclusion: the outskirts of their campsite. He paused a moment as he approached the outer boundaries and found multiple paths before him, all of them branching out into the dense swath of forest that surrounded them on all sides.

 _Now if I were in his shoes, where would I go?_

Somewhere private, secluded. They both had that in common, among seemingly many other things. Just something else that amused Geralt more and more these days.

He heard the caw of a raven high above as he started towards the path on his right, where he saw the trees growing more closely together. Intrigued, he watched the bird as it soared into the forest in the direction he was headed. He recalled, then, something that Regis had said about ravens when they had first started travelling together: _“Ravens are very intelligent fowls. I daresay they would be of great help to us should we encounter one.”_

He decided to follow.

_Let’s see if he was right._

Each step took him farther and farther away from the camp until the flames from the fireplace were just barely visible behind the tree cover. The raven was an invaluable guide much to Geralt’s surprise, and before long the fowl cawed again and alighted on the boughs of an old oak. Geralt paused – there were more ravens gathered on the branches, and, as he swept his gaze around the scene before him, he saw a familiar figure standing just out of reach of these branches, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes gazing outwards into the shadows.

The ravens drew away from the ancient tree when the witcher approached, and as one great group they cawed noisily and flew off, wings beating together in a maelstrom of sound. 

Regis tilted his head in Geralt’s direction, acknowledging the other’s presence when he drew up alongside him, though he did not break his attention away from the forest just yet. He continued to watch until the last of the ravens had flown off before deciding to speak.

“A lovely night by all accounts,” Regis said softly. “It’s a shame that we’re unlikely to be afforded any rest in the coming hours.”

Geralt watched him silently, and many thoughts ran through his mind. Among them was a question, one that he knew should not have surprised him as much as it did: _how does he know?_ He was just on the verge of asking that very question when Regis, seeing the look on Geralt’s face, offered a humourless smile and nodded back to the forest.

“Call it intuition, perhaps. There’s a stillness in the air which is rather reminiscent of the calm before the storm. The forest is restless, as are its inhabitants. You saw the ravens did you not?”

Geralt finally managed to speak again, and his words were measured and slow.

“I did.” He watched Regis, fascinated. The barber-surgeon smiled that same humourless smile again.

“There's a reason why they remain a common subject of many folktales and superstitions. As I told you before, they are exceptionally intelligent creatures. I daresay they can sense the tension in the air as clearly as you or I. Perhaps even more so.” 

Geralt looked in the direction Regis had been gazing so intently at before. He realised it was the perfect location to stage an ambush; the darkness provided good cover, and not even with Geralt's enhanced eyesight could he see that anything moved behind that darkness. If the soldiers were set to attack them, they would be smart to begin from here. 

He exhaled sharply and looked back at the man beside him, feeling both wonderment and the stirrings of admiration at the forefront of his mind. He knew, again, that nothing should have surprised him as much as it did where Regis was concerned, and yet here he was, continuously proving to Geralt time and time over that he was wrong. The witcher felt that pull from earlier, that tug, that sluggish lurch of adrenaline as he gazed into endless black eyes.

Regis smiled again, this time sincerely. He must have felt it, too. 

“Cahir thinks they’re deserters. They’ve been following us since this morning,” Geralt said, standing closer beside Regis. He could feel the warmth from his body. That, and the unique herbal scent that belonged to him was a balm that soothed like no other in this moment.

“I see you met with your young friend again.” Regis chuckled upon seeing the narrowing of Geralt’s eyes at that comment, but, the witcher had to admit, he was grateful for the jest. It was a far lighter way to broach the seriousness of the situation that had befallen them. So he nodded.

“He’s on standby, waiting in the forest until they attack. It shouldn’t be a problem to get Milva and Zoltan to help, but…” He trailed off. Regis nodded in understanding, the man turning sombre once again.

“But that leaves you uncertain as to how to broach the topic to the others. The women and children in particular.”

Geralt nodded again. Regis sighed.

“I will tell them, but…”

“But?” Geralt watched him carefully, frowning at the uncertainty in Regis’ eyes. He could not recall the man ever looking so unsure of himself. It unsettled him. “Regis, I’m not asking you to fight with us. Their safety, _your_ safety, is what’s most important here.”

An odd expression entered Regis’ eyes at that, and he lifted his head to look at Geralt again. There was… _something_ … in that gaze… but Geralt wasn’t sure what it was. It distracted him for a moment, so profound that expression was – so much so, in fact, that he was not aware that Regis had spoken at first until Geralt realised the man's lips were moving again.

“My safety?” Regis’ voice was a soft echo, and Geralt found it hard to look away from him. He watched as those pale, firm lips twitched upwards into a semblance of a smile. Regis continued to fix him with that unreadable stare in his black eyed gaze. “Your concern for me warms my heart, Geralt. But as I've told you before, should the need arise I am not entirely without the means to defend myself. There are many things in this world just as deadly as blades. The only difference is the hand that wields them.”

Geralt finally met his eyes again and held his gaze for a long time. Regis was serious, that much was clear. And Geralt found he believed him.

“Just hope it doesn’t come to that,” he muttered. Regis hummed in agreement and let an arm drop by his side, his hand brushing against Geralt’s in the barest hint of a touch as he did so.

“That makes two of us.”

Geralt wondered if he should say anything else as they lapsed into silence for a while longer. There was a tension thick in the air, the kind of tension that set him on edge. He knew that they would likely all make it out of this encounter in one piece – it would be foolish to assume otherwise, given that together those who could swing a sword or loose an arrow in their company could put even the most well-trained militia to shame – but…

There was something else. 

There had been another reason that he had wanted to speak to Regis before the evening drew to a close. They had not discussed it since that night, but Geralt knew that Regis, too, must have turned his thoughts to that moment, that leap into that abyss that had led them here tonight standing side by side.

Though, Geralt then thought, perhaps it would be easier to not bring it up. Perhaps it had all been a momentary lapse of judgement and should be left behind, buried in the ground and ignored. 

Perhaps. 

But Geralt found that he wasn't so sure. He was used to impulsive decisions – he had made them all his life. And he knew that he could not afford to spend any more time wondering and deliberating within himself when he had finally caught a tantalising glimpse of that certainty that he had so dearly craved for so long. He knew this, and some instinctive part of him felt that Regis knew it too. Some instinctive part of him told him that Regis had also been grasping for that _something._

In the end Geralt decided not to say anything. He decided that, perhaps, that was for the best. 

“When the fighting starts, make sure the others are well out of range,” he said at length, ignoring the gruffness in his voice. Regis nodded.

“Of course. And should—”

“Should anything happen, get them to the Chotla. I’ll try to catch up.”

“I shall do my part, Geralt,” Regis said. “I trust that you’ll do yours.”

Geralt chuckled. The sound was mirthless, bitter. 

“Better not disappoint you, then. I have a lot riding on me tonight.”

Regis elicited a mirthless chuckle of his own. 

“So it would seem.”

Regis’ hand brushed more insistently against Geralt's and Geralt blinked, turning his head to look at his companion. He knew what was going to happen before it did – Regis gave him enough time to reconsider, to pull away, but Geralt did not dare.

The kiss was brief – one single slow touch of their lips together until, what felt far too soon, their mouths parted and Geralt was once again left wanting.

“We should talk about… that…” The words had escaped him before he could stop himself. The taste and warmth lingered, and the witcher felt his earlier thoughts unhinge and scramble. He wanted to know. He wanted to talk. He wanted too many things.

Regis smiled his usual pursed smile, and once again his expression gave away everything and nothing.

“We should. Though perhaps once this unfortunate affair is over and done with?” He turned to leave without waiting for a reply. Before Geralt could follow, however, Regis paused again and looked back at him. “Do you regret it?”

Geralt considered the question at length. He was silent for a long time.

“No.”

Relief flooded Regis’ black eyes, sharp and clear. That was all the answer they both needed.

*****

It had not been easy to tell them. As he watched Regis gather the women and children and quietly inform them of the situation, Geralt then doing likewise with Percival, Zoltan, Dandelion and Milva, the only thing he could think of was that he was glad he was not doing this alone.

As was to be expected his friends were troubled, but that was nothing compared to the horror seen in the eyes of the refugees as they stood there clutching at each other, trembling and moaning in fear. Even from where Geralt was standing he could see the pain this brought Regis, too; Geralt knew then, in that moment, that if there was a remote chance to ensure that the barber-surgeon would stay out of the fighting, the witcher would take it.

He had not outright asked Regis to fight – in fact, Regis himself had still remained largely unclear on the matter even as they had walked back to camp – but it would be worth it if Geralt did not see that look on his face again. What mattered was ensuring his safety and the safety of his charges; the refugees needed to reach the Chotla. Alongside Percival and Dandelion, Regis would be the only one able to take them there.

Geralt could only hope it would be that easy.

“Alright Geralt, we’ll have your back. Just say the world an’ my axe will fly quicker than their swords can reach us,” Zoltan assured him as he clapped the witcher on the back. Geralt stirred, pulling his eyes away from Regis and the refugees before nodding his appreciation at the dwarf.

“Thanks, Zoltan.”

Milva watched the forest with unease.

“You’ll need someone to scout,” she said slowly. “Are you going to let me do that this time?” There was a challenge in her eyes – Geralt did not think she would ever fully forgive him for siding with Regis where her health was concerned. But he would worry about that later.

“Do whatever you need. Our priority is providing cover. These deserters are former Nilfgaardian soldiers – they’ll be thorough, well-trained and well-armed. They won’t go down without a fight.”

Both Zoltan and Milva paused, and if Geralt wasn’t mistaken he thought that Zoltan’s face paled somewhat underneath his beard. Dandelion, who had miraculously remained silent up until that moment, exhaled a shaken gasp and uttered a small groan of despair. Percival shook his head sadly.

“How can you know that?” Zoltan asked uneasily. Geralt did not look at him.

“Have it on good authority.” He turned when he saw movement beside him, though in truth the familiar scent of herbs and spices gave Regis away long before his strides did.

“The women and children have been informed,” the barber-surgeon announced as he stood alongside Geralt. “If we are to make a head start towards the Chotla, we should leave as soon as possible.”

“Right.” Geralt looked at both Dandelion and Percival. “You know what you have to do. Take your horses – we’ll catch up when we’re done here.”

“Not a damn moment too soon,” Milva muttered from where she had since walked off towards the edges of their camp. “I can see shadows moving in the distance. They’re coming.” She cussed sharply under her breath and drew her bow, nocking an arrow and holding the bowstring taut. “Sentries!” she hissed.

 _“Shit!”_ Geralt growled, urging the others onwards with a wave of his hands. “Go! Now!” The blood began pounding and adrenaline surged – a different kind of adrenaline, this time. It was fight or flight. Life or death. He drew his steel sword and the blade flashed in the night.

He would not choose death.

Pandemonium ensued.

Dandelion all but fell over himself as he sprinted towards Pegasus, his horse stamping its feet nervously in the sudden uproar that sprang forth. The poet regained his footing and mounted, Percival leaping into the saddle behind him; the gnome urged the women to follow as he beckoned them after him. The refugees raced forwards, their voices high pitched in their fright. Squeals and cries of terror ensued which only served to make the remaining horses restless. Then they were off.

Zoltan uttered a violent dwarven curse, brandishing his axe with bloodlust in his eyes; a truly horrifying sight he looked in that moment, and Geralt was glad to have him for an ally rather than as a foe.

Milva trained her bow – the sounds of men approaching could be heard clearly now over the commotion; their element of surprise was ruined, and they had forsaken all attempts at an ambush in favour of battle cries and roars. She took aim, was set to fire – and an arrow burst forth from the woods and flew directly into the first sentry’s skull. He fell dead to the ground before he could reach her.

But Milva stood frozen, as did the others. That arrow had not come from her.

“What the—”

A knight in black armour, winged helmet atop his head, sprang out from the shadows, his bow forgotten now in favour of the longsword he had just drawn from its scabbard. He parried the blow struck by the sentry’s approaching comrade, then counterattacked with a riposte that saw the deserter’s head sliced cleanly off his shoulders. It rolled to the ground with a sickening thud, and the bloody stump of what remained of the man’s neck spurted out bright, viscous crimson.

“There are more coming!” the knight yelled, his voice distorted through his helmet. “At your positions! Now! Geralt!”

The witcher nodded, gripping his sword. He saw them. He could hear them. They were closing in around them – closing in fast. Cahir’s cries had stirred Milva and Zoltan into action, too; the archer loosed her arrow and a gurgling scream rent the air as the next man fell, the arrow impaled deep in his throat. Zoltan raced into the forest, axe flying and connecting sharply at the knees of a giant of a man – the deserter howled and dropped to his feet, and through the pain he did not see the axe head that plunged down and sliced into his bared neck.

Geralt readied a Sign, Aard on his fingertips – the magic crackled, pulsed, and he shot a desperate glance to Regis who was still beside him. The man’s eyes were wide and locked onto the approaching attackers, the bodies and the blood, and Geralt growled.

“Regis! The refugees!”

Regis shifted his gaze to Geralt; his stare was intense, sharp, vivid. His eyes were blacker than Geralt ever remembered seeing them. The witcher cussed again. He knew that look well, and he had already decided that he would not allow Regis to become involved in this if he could help it, no matter the cost.

“Geralt, you’re outnumbered—”

“Go! _Now!”_

Stirred from whatever had brought this sudden reverie upon him, Regis nodded once and made a frantic, aborted motion with his hand – as if he was set to reach out for the witcher to try to make contact – but then he was gone in an instant, fleeing with a speed that would have otherwise surprised Geralt had the situation not been so dire.

It was just in time, too; one of the deserters who had broken away from the rest of his comrades had focused in on Geralt and was coming straight towards him. He had clearly not faced a witcher before. Geralt growled, grit his teeth, and with outstretched palms he threw the force of his Sign right into the man’s chest. The Nilfgaardian hit the ground with a cry, the air knocked clean out of him as his sword flew back into the trees. He died screaming as Geralt brought his blade down through his ribs.

As Geralt pulled back and glanced around him, however, he felt unease grow within him. Regis had been right. One quick look was all it took – the number of deserters far outnumbered the small group fighting against them. He swore, angrily, and parried a blow that was intended for Zoltan; the dwarf cried out and joined Geralt with thrusting both axe and sword through the chest of another rogue.

“Geralt, in the nick of time as always!” Zoltan yelled uproariously over the clamour of steel on steel.

“Focus, Zoltan!”

“I’ve never been more focused, lad!”

Geralt did not have time to reply; more were coming. He could count them all now as they cornered them and encircled them from all sides. Twelve in total. They numbered only four.

_Shit._

He was getting too old for this.

A scream from the opposite side of the camp drew his attention and he was just in time to see Milva surrounded by two of those twelve men, her bow ready and her arrows flying like the devil himself had sent them. Her aim was true but she was quickly becoming overwhelmed and had no time to draw her knife, and just as the second man lunged at her, jumping over the fallen body of his friend, Cahir roared and threw his sword. It sailed through the air and caught the deserter in the back, crushing his lungs through his breastplate, and he fell forwards onto the earth impaled on bloodied steel.

It took only a second for Milva to recover from the shock that had gripped her, but she regained herself quickly, providing cover fire with a steady stream of arrows as Cahir rolled out of the way of another attack, pulling his sword free and parrying strike after strike.

“Nilfgaard whore!” Cahir's attacker cried, murder in his eyes and his accent thick on his lips as he used the Common tongue. Cahir grunted behind his helmet and kicked the deserter between the legs which sent the man howling. He brought his sword to the brigand’s neck.

“I am _not_ Nilfgaardian!”

Of those two ex-soldiers, both once in Emhyr’s employ, only one died that night. Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach made sure of it.

It was at that moment that Geralt at last managed to cut his way towards them; he ducked as Milva’s arrows shot past his ears, and he dodged the swings of Zoltan’s axe as blood arced in thick ribbons around them. Every second he counted how many remained: eleven… ten…

They were not dying quick enough. Their attacks weren’t coming fast enough. Already they were getting beaten, bloodied – Zoltan groaned and he stumbled back from a cut to his thigh, and Milva hissed against the searing pain of steel connecting to her forearm.

“We need to group up!” Cahir called out to him, and Geralt grunted in agreement, unable to offer a more tangible response than that as he drove his sword into the back of a man he’d run down. _Nine…_

“Milva! Zoltan! Over here, now!”

He pushed his way forwards, inching ever closer. Signs and swords clashed in a dizzying array one after the other, Geralt pressing the marauders back with fury until he was fighting back to back with Cahir. The irony of the situation was not lost on him, just as surely as it was not lost on Cahir either, but they did not pay any heed to it and worked together to cut, slice and cleave their way through.

Milva’s arrows rained down around them and they used them to their advantage; when the deserters cowered away, Geralt would parry and disarm them with a shockwave of Aard. Cahir would counterattack and Zoltan would sweep in and finish them off.

They worked as a unit, all four of them. But it was not perfect, as befits a company not yet fully familiar with each other’s strengths and weaknesses. They would still have too many cracks to take advantage of, to break through. They were not fighting bandits, but trained soldiers – deserters though these soldiers may be. And when their attackers suddenly turned to the defensive, taking advantage of their quickly tiring forms and forcing the group to become more brazen with their attacks in turn, they soon realised their mistake.

And they were almost powerless to stop it.

Milva’s arrows, though deadly, could only take out one man at a time. In the time that it took to dispatch one foe, another would rush forwards to take his fallen comrade’s place.

Zoltan’s axe was heavy and cumbersome, and though he was deadly and efficient in his strikes, he was tiring quickly and each attack became slower and more open to counterattack from the enemy.

Cahir, though army trained and well-versed in warfare, met his match with the opposing forces as some of these men had also been officers. They knew how to match him, how to find weaknesses and exploit them because they had undergone the same training. And thanks to the armour Cahir was wearing they thought him a soldier of Nilfgaard – and were willing to fight him as such. Cahir took many blows and groaned against the pain; he was faltering and bleeding. 

And Geralt perhaps suffered most of all. True, his mutations allowed him to move faster and attack stronger than any normal human; true, his reflexes were heightened, and he did not tire as easily as his companions; true, he had Signs at his disposal, and he was frequently making use of them to keep the attackers at bay – but there was one distinct difference in all of this.

He was made to fight monsters, and every response, every strike of his sword, every twitch of his fingers as he cast a Sign was a response taught to him to defend against monsters and not humans.

Monsters only had one goal – to slaughter and feed. This made them easy to manipulate, easy to goad and corner, and far easier to kill for one such as him. Humans, on the other hand, were far more intelligent – and far more difficult to read. And what made it such was their goal to survive and to use everything at their disposal to their advantage.

They became an entirely new kind of monster to fight.

But Geralt had to hope that his will to survive was stronger – for the sake of his companions, the sake of the refugees, the sake of Ciri, the sake of Yennefer… and for Regis’ sake also. It was funny how that thought became something he had clung onto so vehemently tonight. There was no time to think on that anymore, however.

Right now, he had a battle to win.

He flexed his fingers, shooting a blistering stream of sparks from his fingers as he called on Igni and melted the plate armour of the deserter who had rushed towards him, the man’s tongue lolling as if he had scented the taste of victory and was savouring it. Victory soon turned into defeat very quickly as he screamed in agony, the stench of burning flesh permeating the air around them. Geralt smote his head clean off and he grounded his stance and extended his reach to catch the next attacker off guard when the man had rushed – too late – to his friend’s aid.

Cahir finished him off – a masterful stroke of his sword the killing blow – but Geralt did not have time to thank his newfound companion as he heard movement behind him.

He dodged, narrowly avoiding the blow that was meant for him. The ground seemed to shake from the strength the marauder had put into the swing of his halberd. Cahir, Milva and Zoltan broke apart. They had to.

And just like that, their guard had been penetrated, their weaknesses exposed. Their attackers, just like wild animals, like monsters, had tasted blood and were ravenous for it. 

“Give it up, Nordlings! An excellent fight, but you have already lost!” the Nilfgaardian deserter cried joyously, laughing as he swung his halberd again, blocking both Zoltan’s and Cahir’s attempts to catch him off guard. Milva was unable to get a clean shot at him – his speed was startling for a man of his height and stature, and Geralt was forced to turn his attention for the briefest of moments onto the man who was set to attack Milva from behind.

Which was, of course, what the Nilfgaardians were planning on.

Geralt counted them quickly: four remained. Only four to match the four their group made. Equal numbers, but never had they been so unequally matched. This man, this giant of a man who called out to them and goaded them to give up, was clearly the leader. They had saved the best for last.

“Together!” Geralt shouted, feeling the blood pounding as he forced himself to calm, to focus, to read the leader and calculate what he would do next. His fingers twitched. His pulse raced. This was what he was made for. To fight.

He launched at him, and as one, Milva, Cahir and Zoltan joined him. They rushed at them: two of those four men died under Zoltan’s and Cahir’s blades. Milva’s arrows pierced the third. And Geralt had his sights set on the leader, the last one standing, the monster that led the pack. It was easier if he thought of him that way.

“A vatt’ghern?” The deserter’s grin was wild. He saw the twin swords and swung his halberd once more, Geralt his clear sole prey in that moment. This was good. If Geralt could distract him, keep him off the others… “A pity I did not find you earlier. I would have earned good coin for your head!”

“I’m worth more than whatever Emhyr would have paid you,” Geralt snapped, matching the deserter’s grin with his own. He bared his teeth, his expression livid, savage, and the deserter almost faltered for a moment in the face of it.

Geralt had been studying him, and in those few seconds he had learned all that he had needed to know. He saw what would have happened, then, if he had allowed the man to make the first move as Geralt was originally planning: he would have seen Zoltan butted in the chest with the pole of the halberd, the dwarf cussing and groaning as he fell to the ground, coughing blood. Milva’s arrows would have been useless against the heavy plate the marauder wore – and she, too, would be cast to the ground before Geralt could so much as react.

It would have all gone so wrong, so quickly. Even for Cahir; he would try to cut in front of the marauder, try to guide his strikes away from the witcher so that Geralt could rush to the others’ aid, if Geralt did nothing. But the witcher knew that Cahir’s only saving grace as he would inevitably end up falling to his knees – indeed, the saving grace of all of his friends – was that he was not, and that they were not Geralt.

So in that split second he made his decision. His grin was the distraction the soldier needed for Geralt to flex his fingers and gather a Sign in his palms. The halberd rose higher, inch by inch – Geralt saw it all play out as if in slow motion as he slowed his senses, timed his responses, watched and waited... and then he felt the sudden sharp, agonising pain in his knee blossom tenfold. His sight went near white from the pain.

Geralt stumbled on his feet, and he groaned and sank to one knee as that excruciating agony tore through him anew. His sword lowered to the ground. 

He heard a triumphant laugh and knew that his attacker had seen all that he had needed to, as well. For one instant it felt as if it would all be over. Geralt's thoughts stilled. Pain rocketed through him. Time dragged on.

The halberd swung down.

_“Geralt!”_

Through the agony he saw a black shape move from the corner of his eye. He heard a loud cry of anger. He felt the tense moment where time finally stopped as something drove down and bright red blood pooled in front of him. He blinked, and in that instant sense finally, at last, returned to him.

He did not fully register what it was he was seeing at first. He saw the black figure in front of him. He saw the marauder with his halberd arcing downwards within reach of Geralt’s head. He saw the silver of the weapon shaking, trembling, and he saw the crimson that dripped off it in rivulets.

He then realised, with horrifying clarity, why the weapon was shaking, and whose cry that had been. His chest felt remarkably tight in that moment. Even his leg seemed to ease into a less insistent throbbing.

“… Regis…?”

His back was turned to the witcher, but Geralt could hear the man’s pained groan as Regis dug his hands even tighter around the attacker’s wrists. The blood was the barber-surgeon’s own, Geralt knew – he could see the gaping gash where the steel had connected with flesh and had torn a jagged cut down Regis’ forearm. A second later and Geralt knew that that blade would have connected with his own chest instead.

The marauder, though, was gazing transfixed at Regis’ face, which Geralt could not see. But the witcher saw the terror in that man’s eyes. He could only imagine what it was he was seeing right now.

“Wh-what _are you—”_

“That is quite enough out of you.” Regis’ voice was remarkably steady despite the wound. Remarkably steady and remarkably cold. Geralt heard movement around him and he shook his head, feeling himself getting pulled to his feet by Milva. He ignored the stab of pain that again surged through him as he stood. Milva's expression was just as stunned as his own, he knew – as were Zoltan’s and Cahir’s. Each of them looked as if they had seen a wraith.

“Regis, what the—”

“Geralt? Are you harmed?” He saw the briefest incline of Regis’ head in his direction, the man’s long grey locks shadowing his face as he turned ever so slightly. “Milva? Cahir? Zoltan?”

They shook their heads, slowly. The sight before them was macabre. And through it all Regis didn’t so much as bat a damn eye. Geralt knew then – he had proof positive – that Regis was, in fact, not all he seemed.

Regis nodded and exhaled sharply.

Then, his hands crushing down tighter against the marauder’s wrists with such apparent strength that the attacker winced and bit back a choked groan, Regis let go and pushed him back. The Nilfgaardian stumbled and fell. No sooner had he hit the ground had he tried to crawl back to his feet to make his escape. A fearful scream erupted from him. He was ignored. 

Regis' hands fell back to his sides. 

“Good. He’s all yours.” 

He seemed to change, then. Something happened in that moment – as he turned around Regis seemed to grow weary and transform once again into the peaceful barber-surgeon that they had all of them come to recognise; he sighed, winced, and gripped his bloodied arm as if he had only just noticed the extent of his wounds.

His black eyes, however, were clear and composed as they locked onto Geralt’s wide gold ones, and he offered the barest hint of a smile before grimacing again. Geralt swore, once more ignoring his leg all but screaming in protest as he sheathed his sword. He kept his distance, though he wanted to go to the man. Many emotions ran through his mind in that moment: anger and shock the most predominant.

“Pack up the last of the tents,” Geralt said hollowly to the others, ignoring the choked cry from the deserter behind them that trailed off into sudden blissful silence. Milva’s last arrow had found its target. “Quickly. We’re leaving.”

When they eventually left the grove where they had been ambushed some time later, Geralt continued to remain quiet. He pushed away Regis' attempts to help him walk. He was aware of Regis staring at him all the while.

He acknowledged him again at long last when he slowly eased himself into Roach’s saddle.

“You owe me some answers,” Geralt said quietly as Regis guided them back onto the paths that the others had taken with the refugees when they had first fled. Regis nodded, and Geralt felt that penetrating, disarming gaze upon him once more. 

“I do. But later please, Geralt.”

Geralt spurred Roach onwards. He grit his teeth. 

“You can be damn sure of it.”


	7. Chapter 7

Dandelion had been overjoyed to see them again when they arrived. Percival, too, was glad to see them in his own way, and he had informed them all that the refugees were safe. The Chotla was now less than a day’s march ahead, and so the poet and gnome had set up a makeshift camp by the opposite bank of the Yaruga whilst they waited for Regis to return with Geralt, Milva, and Zoltan in tow. The surprise was clear to see on their faces when Cahir had ridden up alongside their company too, but given how many of them were wounded and not in the mood to talk after their fight, the matter wasn’t given any further thought. 

It was also the first time that night that Geralt was able to finally take stock of the situation and see exactly what damage had been dealt to both himself and his companions.

Zoltan’s face was bruised and marred by cuts on both cheeks; upon further inspection, those cuts dragged further down his arms and chest, and his breeches were torn along the thighs and knees, revealing more bloodied skin underneath. They were superficial wounds, however, which would heal over relatively quickly given the proper treatment.

Milva was favouring her left leg; a soldier had tried to pull her down by her feet when she had loosed an arrow in him. Her right arm, too, bore scrapes and fresh bleeding wounds, but as with Zoltan's, these injuries were also superficial in origin. Geralt was relieved to see that she was in high spirits despite the pain and her previous sickness.

Cahir, however, fared the worst of them all. His armour had been crushed in more than one place; he'd had no shield and had had no choice but to defend himself with only his sword, and perhaps because of his Nilfgaardian plate, that had been why he had been the deserters’ prime target. Removing it became a slow and painful process, one that made the young man grit his teeth and visibly resist the urge to howl. Seeing the state he was in after, with blood pooling quickly from various wounds on his chest, he was lucky to have made it out of that fight at all.

But he was alive and he would heal. Geralt never thought that he would be glad to think that.

The refugees were quick to rush to their aid. It appeared that Regis had been instructing them in various healing and hygiene practices over the many nights he had spent with them, though Geralt denied and pushed away the attempts made by the women to help clean his own wounds and supply him with bandages. He had previously imbibed a dose of Swallow on the road and he could already feel the potion’s restorative effects at work, and the pain in his leg had now eased into something manageable. As for the remainder of his injuries, he was fortunate in that any wound he received was usually never as bad as it looked. _Besides,_ he thought, _what's one more scar to the collection in my case?_

He never received an answer to that question he asked himself, however, because despite their victory there remained a sense of great unease over the camp; an unease that only grew tenfold when Geralt swept his eyes over those gathered and noticed the absence of one man in particular.

And that absence, Geralt bitterly reminded himself, was entirely thanks to his own doing. 

He clenched his jaw, unbidden memories crossing to the forefront of his mind of how he had sharply told Regis to wait for him when they had dismounted the horses. There were too many things he had wanted to say. Too many things he had wanted to feel and not to feel. 

There were too many things, and he had felt his anger stir anew when the barber-surgeon had simply nodded, turned away, and walked off silently into the night. Geralt had not even bothered to note where he had gone. 

“What happened out there, Geralt?” Dandelion asked cautiously as he walked up to the witcher some time later, when Geralt had been on his way back from seeing how the others had been faring. He dropped his voice to a whisper, casting a furtive glance over Geralt’s shoulder at Cahir. “And what’s _he_ doing here?”

“Don’t wanna talk about it,” Geralt grunted. He then stopped, reconsidering for a moment, and then he joined Dandelion in sparing a brief look back at the soldier. “We’re alive and he helped us." He turned back to his friend. "Tell me what happened out here.”

Dandelion stared at him and then gestured to the remainder of the camp.

“Well, we were about halfway down this road when Regis stopped and told us he had to go back. He had this… _look_ in his eyes, like he was afraid.”

“Afraid?” Geralt echoed, raising a brow. “Why?”

“Haven’t a clue.” Dandelion frowned. “By the way, Geralt, why isn’t Regis helping with the others? I mean no one can patch up a wound like he can – why did you tell him to wait—”

“Because I want to talk to him. Continue with your story.”

Dandelion sighed, recognising Geralt's tone of voice as being one that brooked no argument. Thankfully he knew when to back off, otherwise Geralt felt that he would have throttled him several times over already. The poet went on.

“I told him that there would be nothing to worry about – you’re a witcher, after all – and in fact I was just about to tell him about the time you singlehandedly took down the striga and broke the curse on Foltest’s daughter, but he was off before I could finish.” 

Despite the gravity of the situation Geralt could not entirely hide the small grin that moved to his lips.

“Bet you didn’t like that.”

Dandelion narrowed his eyes at him.

“Very funny, Geralt.” He sighed again. “But, really, what’s this all about? I’ve never seen a man move so fast before. And he didn’t even take a horse.”

“That’s what I’m hoping I’ll find out,” Geralt muttered. He looked around him. “Where is he now?” The question felt remarkably heavy on his tongue. 

Dandelion gestured with his thumb in the direction behind him.

“By the tents.” 

Geralt thanked him and walked away, following the direction outlined to him. He would have to owe Dandelion an apology later on, but now wasn’t the time. Now…

Now he wasn’t sure what he would do.

He espied a loose roll of bandages someone had left behind on a meagre pack of belongings – it probably belonged to one of the women. He hesitated, thought for a moment, and then picked it up and continued on his way.

He found Regis exactly where Dandelion said he would be.

He was seated on the remnants of an old log that had long ago been cut down and evidently forgotten about; it made for a reasonable place to sit away from the whispers and the voices of the others in their party. The barber-surgeon's shoulders were hunched forwards as he seemingly studied the ground at his feet, and his hands were clasped tightly together in front of him. He was a startling contrast to the Regis that Geralt had seen in that fight, standing there, in front of him, taking that blow that was meant for _him_.

Geralt was furious. He had told Regis to not get involved, to make sure that the others were safe. So _why?_

He did not bother to mask his steps as he approached; he somehow had the feeling that Regis had long since noticed he was there. He was right.

“How are the others?” Regis lifted his head when Geralt stopped in front of him. His gaunt face was hidden in shadow; his eyes were solemn. Geralt ignored the twinge in his gut. He hated that expression.

“Milva and Zoltan have a few wounds, but nothing that’ll leave anything worse than a scar. Cahir’s armour was pierced through, but he’ll live. The refugees are patching them up. They learned a lot from you.”

Regis smiled faintly.

“I’m glad they took my lessons to heart.”

There was silence for a long moment. Regis gazed once more at Geralt with that same helpless, haunting expression. There was something else in that stare, too; Geralt knew that it was fear – the fear of what would have happened that night if Regis had not been there. The witcher hated that fear he saw almost as much as he hated the helplessness. 

"And you? Geralt, you—"

"I'm fine." Geralt's interruption came quickly and sharply – perhaps too sharply. He looked away. He had to. He began to idly toy with the bandages in his hand. Regis noticed this, and he chose his next words carefully. 

“Given that you have no need for them, am I correct in assuming those are for me?”

Geralt nodded once. Regis sighed.

“Geralt, I—”

“Show me your arm.”

Regis continued to hold his stare, his expression turning pleading. Geralt didn’t know why, but he wasn’t willing to hear it. Not this time.

“There's no need. Really.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

Regis fell silent again, and Geralt could not help but be under the impression that the barber-surgeon was deliberating something within himself. The look in his eyes was that of a man who had many things to tell, but no knowledge of how to tell them. Geralt knew the look well. After all, he was very much the same.

Eventually, though, Regis complied. He lifted his arm to show the witcher, and not a word was uttered from his lips as Geralt knelt down in front of him and assessed the wound.

Or lack thereof.

Dried blood caked the torn fabric of Regis’ robe where the steel had cut through to the flesh beneath, but where the injury lay it was clear to see that it had already been cleaned; Geralt caught the faintest whiff of disinfectant as he roamed his eyes over Regis' pale skin. As for the wound itself, however, it was mostly closed instead of being open like he was fearing. In fact, if Geralt knew his wounds – which he did – he would have said that the gaping gash that he had caught glimpse of in those few brief, horrifying seconds had already largely healed over.

There were not many species, human or otherwise, that could regenerate wounds so quickly. Geralt thought carefully on this as he continued. 

He gingerly touched a hand to the pale skin where it was cleanest, and he remained quiet in his assessment as he traced the length of Regis' arm with equally light presses. Regis’ skin remained warm to the touch, and he could feel the man’s eyes on him, not once blinking in that moment. He also heard the too-slow heartbeats from the man above and smelled that familiarly sweet herbal scent, and for a moment Geralt felt that he could almost forget his anger.

Just for a moment. 

He brought up the bandages.

“How’re you holding up?” he asked quietly. He heard Regis exhale softly.

“I am well, all things considered,” Regis murmured. “Thank you.”

“Nice to see your wound’s all healed up. Rather quickly, too.”

Regis was silent again for a moment. Geralt had the distinct impression that Regis, too, felt many things in that moment, and wanted to say a great deal many more. 

“Geralt—”

“Now as a witcher, that makes me draw some conclusions,” Geralt interrupted, again not wanting to hear – or perhaps fearing to hear – Regis' explanation. His hold tightened around the man's wrist. “But for now I want to forget that. I’m angry with you, Regis, but I won’t ask. I know there’s things you don’t want to tell me. Everyone’s got something they want to hide.” Geralt lifted his head, staring Regis in the face at long last. The barber-surgeon now looked weary, defeated. But grateful at the same time.

Geralt preferred that look over the helplessness he had seen before. 

“Why did you do it?” He unrolled the bandages and began to apply them.

He heard Regis’ soft intake of breath. He looked back up at the man and kept his eyes on him as Regis spoke.

“Would you believe me if I said it was because I was worried? That I feared for your safety?” Regis asked quietly, ignoring Geralt’s gaze and instead focusing on the way the witcher wound the bandages around his forearm. His hair swept past his cheeks as he bowed his head to do so, and the action quickly rendered his expression unreadable. Geralt wondered if perhaps Regis had done that on purpose. 

“Dandelion mentioned something of the sort. What I want to know is why.”

Regis gave a bitter laugh at that and finally looked Geralt back in the eyes.

“Geralt, you were outnumbered from the very beginning,” he said incredulously. “And with all due respect to both you and your abilities, the attempt was still fruitless. You saw those men. You saw how they were trained, how they fought… I… could not bear to think of the outcome if I’d not arrived when I had.”

Geralt nodded, wrapping the bandages around again. He thought back to that moment and his jaw clenched.

“It was good you got there when you did,” he admitted through gritted teeth. “We were tiring, they wore us out. It was reckless of you, but…” he sighed. “We owe our lives to you, me especially. I won’t forget that.”

He looked back up just in time to see Regis nod in understanding.

“I would do it again,” Regis said softly. “In a heartbeat.”

Geralt tied off the bandages and leant back, watching as Regis slowly raised his arm and inspected Geralt’s handiwork. An odd look was in the man’s eyes, a look that Geralt had seen several times over now. It was that look that threatened to disarm him each and every time, all over again. If he thought about it, the witcher would have likened that look as something akin to desperation… or perhaps even yearning. The kind where one yearns desperately for something they cannot have.

Again, he knew it well.

“Why do you care?” Geralt asked softly. He had an inkling: now he wanted to hear it in words.

Regis frowned and he shot his gaze back up, searching Geralt’s eyes as if his question had been some kind of cruel joke.

“How could I not?”

Geralt arched a brow; though Regis had whispered those words, they resonated as loudly to him as if Regis had all but yelled them in his face.

“You wanted to have this conversation earlier on,” Regis continued, taking advantage of Geralt’s silence. “I cannot think of a better time than the present.”

Geralt swallowed.

“Go on.” He ignored the tightness in his throat.

“I intend to. And I wish to start with this.” Regis held up his arm, the one that Geralt had just bandaged. “I told you, Geralt, that I wasn’t in need of your care. But you ignored me and tended to my wounds regardless – an act that no one else in my long count of years has ever done for me.” Regis let those words hang, watching as Geralt registered them and allowed them to sink in.

The tension was thick, stifling. Geralt could not look away. Regis’ expression was pleading, yearning, _wanting._

And again, Geralt recognised that look only far too well.

“I could ask you the very same question – in fact I shall. Why do _you_ care? What brought about this act of altruism from you? Why are you so concerned for _my_ safety above the safety of others?” Regis’ eyes bored into Geralt’s own, and once again Geralt had the distinct impression that he was being read like an open book. Regis smiled bitterly. "Why am I fascinated by you? Why do I look at you and see something that I have never before seen from another human being?"

Then Regis’ voice dropped into such a quiet whisper that not even Geralt could pick out all his words at first.

“Why is it that in the relatively short time we have known one another, I have never before felt more certain about anything – or any _one_ – in my life?”

And there it was. That certainty, and _being_ certain. Geralt felt as if the air had suddenly become sucked out of his lungs. There were too many things that those words had revealed. Far too many. 

“Dunno.” Geralt offered a small smile some time later, and he found that he had difficulty speaking. “Poor judgement, maybe?”

Regis laughed – the sound was so sudden and so unexpected that Geralt found his smile slowly widening. When Regis’ laughter trailed off, the man sighed and reached out to rest a hand lightly, tentatively, atop Geralt’s own.

“Isn’t it ironic, then, that my poor judgement has led me here, to this moment and to you? I consider this a crossroads of sorts, Geralt, I shall not lie. This… attraction? This desire between us? I don't know what to call it, just as I'm uncertain as to whether or not it is momentary or long-lasting. When we first met I would have said it was the former; now, however, I dare to hope that it is the latter. And hope is… a dangerous thing for someone like me to have.”

Geralt nodded. He had thought much the same. Hope, like trust, was terrifying. It was all-consuming. It was intense.

He considered a moment, and again thought carefully on Regis’ words.

“And why’s that so dangerous?” he eventually asked. He could feel the bridge burning around him; he could feel the flames licking at his skin and threatening to scorch him to ash. In that moment, he did not care. He wanted to burn. He wanted too many things. 

Something changed in Regis’ face, then. Something that Geralt found he liked. The barber-surgeon's black eyes focused solely on the witcher as Regis leaned forwards, his hand tightening around Geralt’s wrist. His touch was warm. Real.

“I shall show you.”

Like before, Regis gave him time to reconsider, to pull away if he wanted to. But Geralt, like before, did no such thing. And yet even he was still surprised by the speed with which their mouths met, and the suddenness with which he had been pulled up with and pushed – not ungently – against the trunk of the nearest tree.

In that one dizzying, disorienting second, Geralt was blind to all feeling except Regis’ mouth on his. His kiss was hungry and searching; a stark contrast to the kisses they had shared before. It sparked that flame that had begun to burn so long ago deep within the witcher, and Geralt wasted no time in matching the urgency of that kiss, groaning in pleasure as he came back to himself and to the moment and let his hands wander. He started by gripping Regis by the neck and fisting his hands into his grey locks, tucking the loose strands out of the way as he swallowed Regis’ soft answering groan. The sound of it only caused that flame to burn hotter and brighter within Geralt’s core.

The kiss became deeper, desperate, as if they continued to search for something they had already found. Which was what they had been doing all along, Geralt realised as he chased Regis’ lips with the same fervour he was met with, dropping his hands now to the man’s slender waist and pulling him more forcibly against him until his body was all he could feel. Warm and real.

Adrenaline was pumping through him and his heart beat sluggishly in time with each intoxicating pulse of it in his blood, and with great satisfaction Geralt noted that he was not alone; Regis' too-slow heart was beating with a ferocity that almost matched the witcher's own. 

Geralt felt long hands twist and pull in his hair, and one of those hands strayed to cup his jaw as the other trailed down, further down until it alighted upon his own waist; in that moment, Geralt narrowed his world down to only two things: one, the taste and scent of herbs and spices, and two, the blistering warmth and feel of those firm lips as they claimed his, and each touch and caress of Regis' hands upon Geralt's eager limbs.

And yet even then it was still not enough. Like a man parched, Geralt had taken one sip from the stream, the bubbling brook, and now he wanted to fall head first and drown. And if the sound of Regis’ gentle groans and the desperate hunger in his kisses was anything to go by, he was not the only one.

That pleased him more than he could ever say.

Geralt smiled when those kisses eventually eased into a gentle rhythm that set his already uneven heart off kilter even more. Regis grasped both sides of his jaw in his hands, and Geralt answered by pressing eagerly into that slow, even kiss. He felt Regis’ answering smile and for a moment the passion ebbed, though it was far from extinguished.

“Are you sure you wish to pursue this?” Regis whispered into his mouth, breathless, as he mapped the corner of Geralt’s kiss-swollen lips. Geralt groaned softly, unable to resist the pleasurable shiver that coursed down his back in response. He chuckled.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Regis exhaled softly and dropped his hands away from Geralt’s face. He pressed another deep, slow kiss to Geralt’s mouth before pulling one of Geralt’s hands away from where it had been resting at the barber-surgeon's waist. Geralt frowned, wondering what Regis was planning, but he soon got his answer when the man had pressed Geralt's open palm to the unmistakeable source of his pleasure. Geralt groaned, amused and simultaneously feeling a warm flood of arousal pooling deep inside him in response as Regis guided the witcher's fingers over the growing hardness between his legs, allowing Geralt to feel and to understand exactly how he affected the barber-surgeon.

“Because you are the only one who has made me feel this way.” Regis’ voice was hoarse, faint, as he held Geralt’s hand there and gazed at him with pleading black eyes. Geralt shuddered and licked his lips. And nodded. The admission thrilled him, stirred something dark and primal within him. 

“Another one of your secrets?” he whispered, cupping Regis more firmly with his hand and relishing the renewed breathless groan he earned in response.

“One of yours too, I’d wager,” Regis retorted softly, making no efforts to hold back as he pressed even closer to the witcher and simply brushed his own hand against the tell-tale evidence that proved that Geralt, too, was similarly affected. Geralt exhaled a quick, sharp breath and nodded again, feeling the warmth of Regis' hand and unable to resist the desire to arch into the touch as he trailed his darkened gaze over the man before him. Because Regis was right. And this was one secret that Geralt no longer wished to keep hidden. 

He saw the opportunity and he took it: he dipped his head down, groaning and tracing his mouth against Regis’ neck, yearning to explore that pale column of flesh presented to him as hands moved and hips thrust. Regis sighed, his eyes sliding closed as he breathed uneven breaths, and he pressed more insistently into Geralt’s touch and caresses. He relaxed in Geralt’s arms, knowing that he had already received the answer to the question that he had asked, and Geralt’s answering groans grew more pronounced as Regis bucked gently into his hand one final time before slowing. He pulled his free hand away from the heat of Geralt's body and then cupped two fingers under Geralt's jaw, tilting the witcher’s chin back up so that their faces were level. His black eyes burned into deep golden as Regis sealed Geralt’s lips with another all-consuming kiss.

Geralt let him – he wanted him to take control, to kiss him until he had sucked every last breath out of him. Because he would let him, if it came down to it. He would let him, because Geralt had never before felt so certain.

His satisfied groans turned into a sigh of disappointment when, however, what felt like far too soon, Regis eased the ardour of his kisses and slowly pulled back again, daring to give them both space to breathe. Geralt was going to express his disappointment in words when he stopped, blinking the daze out of his eyes to see Regis looking at him with such sincerity and such openness in his penetrating gaze that the witcher paused.

Regis’ words from before echoed in his mind, then:

_“I consider this a crossroads of sorts.”_

_“Are you sure you wish to pursue this?”_

This was the turning point, Geralt realised. He was being given one last chance to turn back, to reconsider, to go on chasing memories of lilac and gooseberries when all they amounted to were just that: memories.

But Geralt knew now that what he wanted was something far more real. Far more certain. Everything – every thought, every touch, every word, every glance, _everything_ had led up to this moment. And for the first time in a long time, Geralt felt as if he truly was in charge of his actions and his choices.

Because right here, right now, it was just the two of them. For the moment everything else was forgotten. They were not being hunted, they were not fleeing for their lives. There was no djinn, no magic, no threat.

All they needed was a simple answer – one that Geralt was able to give with full honesty and a clear conscience. And give it, he did.

He dived back in and tasted bliss.

*****

Dawn approached to cast away the mist that had settled atop the riverbanks in the night, which had severely hampered their plans for travel the previous day. Given how close they were to the Chotla, the place that had been their goal for the past week, the relief was clear to see on the company's faces at knowing that they could now attempt the final stretch of their journey.

The women and children especially were more restless than ever; it was clear that they were not the only ones who wished to see their travels come to an end, and so they did not complain when preparations were made to leave as soon as everyone had awoken and had partaken of their morning meal. It was also clear to see that the somewhat improved mood had also extended to the others in the witcher’s company: Milva did not suffer any more bouts of sickness that morning, and she was sharp-eyed and clear-headed as she readied her bow and quiver. Zoltan, his face sporting new cuts and scars, was in a considerably jovial mood as he conversed with Dandelion and Percival over their quick breakfast of salted meats and dried fruit from the saddlebags.

Cahir had also improved considerably over the night, and though he had been the most in need of bandages after the wounds he had received in the attack, his injuries did not stop him from readying his sword and donning a fresh suit of armour; he had forgone the crushed remains of his own plate in favour of scavenging for a less conspicuous set that he had been fortunate enough to find in possession of the deserters.

When there was a brief moment of respite to be had in-between their preparations he came up to Geralt when the witcher had finished his morning meal.

“If you will permit me, I would like to scout ahead.”

Geralt turned to face him, not even bothering to mask his face in his usual indifference. He arched a brow.

“Do what you want. I’m not in charge of you.”

Cahir scoffed. The sound was strange coming from him.

“No, you are not. But that does not change the fact that you would still prefer it if I were not here.”

Geralt crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing the young man in full. Given any other circumstance Geralt would have openly agreed with him on that, but now, especially after seeing what Cahir was capable of when he had defended Milva and Zoltan from the deserters the night before, Geralt wasn’t so sure.

He considered him and his words carefully.

“Let’s say I did. Why would you still bother asking me for permission? I’m not your commander. Pretty damn sure you gave that life up when you left Nilfgaard.”

Cahir’s eyes narrowed and he looked at the ground.

“Vicovaro,” he muttered irritably. Geralt blinked.

“What?”

“My family is from Vicovaro,” Cahir sighed.

“Last I checked, that was still a part of—”

“There is a difference, witcher,” Cahir snapped, cutting Geralt off. He froze when he saw the look in Geralt’s eyes, however. It was almost a look of amusement; the witcher was daring to joke with him. 

An awkward silence ensued for a time until Geralt was then the one to break it.

“You think the presence of those deserters means Nilfgaard’s likely on the move in the area, don’t you?”

Cahir nodded.

“It would hardly be a coincidence. I have to make sure.”

 _Can’t argue with that,_ Geralt mused.

“Go. Keep a look out. You know where we’ll be,” he said at length, returning his attention back to Roach’s saddlebags. He heard the clanking of armour as Cahir no doubt nodded and turned away, preparing to leave.

He spoke up again when Cahir was almost out of earshot.

“I never got to thank you for last night,” he said. Cahir paused. Geralt did not need to turn his head to know that the man was looking back at him – probably with his mouth completely agape. “Milva would have been dead if you hadn’t arrived when you did. Zoltan, too.”

This time the witcher did turn to look at him, and Cahir was indeed staring at him as if Geralt had suddenly grown two extra heads. Geralt sighed.

“You risked yourself for us. I appreciate it.”

Cahir remained silent for a moment longer, until he finally stirred from his reverie and offered a stiff, though noticeably relieved nod. He dared to offer the barest hint of a smile before walking away, leaving Geralt alone once more by his horse. Geralt tied the saddlebags and double checked that Roach was carrying them as comfortably as she could. Then, seeing the mare watching him and offering him a contemptuous sounding snort, Geralt rolled his eyes.

 _I have too many scruples_ , he thought again for not the first time. _I’ll have to do something about that._

He reached up and rubbed a hand down Roach's neck, offering her a small pat before gathering his swords and sheathing them upon his back. He felt the familiar weight of the metal and he rolled his shoulders, stretched, and felt his mind clear. He stood there for a while – perhaps five minutes, maybe ten. His mind had wandered and though he knew that the others would be ready to leave at any moment, he still remained.

“I passed by our young friend a moment ago,” a familiar voice sounded behind him after a while, drawing Geralt back to the present. “He mentioned that he would be departing again to reconnoitre.” Regis halted beside Geralt and he arched a brow. “You were right. I heard almost no Nilfgaardian accent when he spoke.”

Geralt’s lips twitched and he cast Regis an amused look.

“Careful. Better make sure he’s still not around before you start saying things like that.”

Regis chuckled.

“I shall be on my guard.” Then, before Geralt had the chance to speak further, Regis seemed to guess exactly what it was that was on the witcher’s mind – a rather profound trait of his which Geralt continued to remain fascinated by: “I came to find you – we are almost ready to leave, and I quite agree with Dandelion’s concerns that we’d all feel much safer with a witcher among us when we do.”

Geralt nodded. _That answers that question._

“Noted. I was on my way back, anyhow.”

He turned around, grabbed Roach by the reins and then motioned for Regis to follow. A companionable silence reigned momentarily. Geralt appreciated the distraction – and the company. For a moment his thoughts had drifted entirely: he remembered the touch of warm lips and eager caresses in the night. He recalled them vividly.

Part of him deeply regretted not going beyond that and reaching for something _more_ that previous evening, as much as he had dearly wanted to. But as Regis had reminded him when passions had eventually eased and kisses had eventually slowed, there was always a time and a place. It just wasn’t to be there or then.

Still, Geralt had never been as clear-headed as he had been after they had finally sought to return to the group in the night. He could not remember the last time he had ever felt such a way; the sensation was liberating in the way that it was both certain and _real_ – something that he had learned had become very important to him as of late, as important as Regis himself had certainly become. And that was dangerous for someone like him – a witcher, a lone wanderer, a mutant, a drifter. He was reminded of those similar words that Regis himself had uttered. 

He almost smiled. 

“May I ask what troubles you?”

Geralt pondered Regis’ inquiry for a minute, and then he eventually decided to speak.

“We’re less than a day out from the Chotla,” he began, slowing his steps and forcing his thoughts to return to the more immediate issue. Regis matched his strides and gave him his full, undivided attention. “And yet we were attacked by Nilfgaardian deserters on the road.”

“Ah.” Regis smiled sadly, and it was clear that he had already guessed Geralt’s train of thought. “The evidence of a Nilfgaardian presence is undeniable, unmistakeable even. You were right to allow Cahir to scout ahead.”

“He wanted to go in the first place. Wasn’t going to deny him that,” Geralt said, resuming his former pace and walking quickly towards the others. “Besides, he proved himself last night. Still don’t trust him as far as I can throw him, but… there _is_ that.”

“Do I detect a note of admiration in your voice?” Regis asked, his eyes seeming to twinkle with amusement. Geralt shot him a look, then turned his attention briefly towards Milva and Zoltan, who were waiting by the refugees. They were still here, still breathing.

He nodded stiffly. 

“Maybe.”

“Geralt.”

Geralt paused, feeling Regis touch a hand to his arm to stop him. He looked at the barber-surgeon and raised a brow quizzically.

“Where do you intend to go after we reach the refugee camp?” Regis asked, changing the subject. Geralt considered the question.

“Milva still thinks it’d be best to stay east. As do you, if I remember correctly.”

“You do,” Regis nodded. “But we cannot of course ignore the very real possibility that we are not out of the woods yet, both figuratively and literally. Should we need to evade the emperor’s forces, I propose a more direct route towards the Caed Dhu wilderness.”

“Caed Dhu?” Geralt echoed, frowning. “Why?” He had been there only once before. Located in Angren, on the bank of the Yaruga, the forests and swamps that blanketed the region were a veritable death trap.

“I know of the druids that make themselves at home there,” Regis explained. “This is merely a suggestion of course, and I know that the journey is a less than preferable one. But perhaps they may be able to assist us in locating Cirilla’s whereabouts?”

Geralt thought about it for a moment. It was an interesting suggestion, and not one he would have made himself. He turned away.

“If Ciri’s in Nilfgaard, why would we stop by the druid’s circle first?” he asked quietly. “I’ve been on her trail for almost a month now, Regis. After the Chotla I can’t afford any more shortcuts.”

Regis nodded and moved his hand to place it on Geralt’s shoulder in a gesture of understanding.

“I know, Geralt. But given our current location and current lack of knowledge concerning the girl, it may prove to be beneficial in the long run. But take from it what you will – I consider this suggestion as a last resort, should all other paths remain unclear to us. In any case, I thought it best to bring to your attention now rather than later.”

Geralt offered the man a faint smile.

“I appreciate it.”

Regis returned the smile.

“I certainly hope so.”

They then turned their attention to the remainder of their company; they had joined the others who had at that moment finished packing their belongings and readying their horses, which put all further discussion about the diversion to the wilderness momentarily on hold.

“Ah, Geralt! It’s about time!” Zoltan announced, swinging his axe over his shoulder. “Are you ready to get going?” 

“Yeah,” Geralt said. “I’d like to get there before noon.”

They prepared to leave, and the third hour past dawn saw them free of the forests for what was hopefully the last time.


	8. Chapter 8

A swift change in weather greeted them as they stuck to the shaded paths, eager to avoid any further contact with soldiers and deserters alike that may have been keeping a watchful eye on the more well-travelled eastern roads. It grew hot and the humidity quickly became uncomfortable, and before long, even before the sun had neared its zenith that day, the company found themselves longing for cool, clear water and an equally cool breeze to stave off the sweat and discomfort.

Yet even the persistent heat was not enough to fully douse the considerably lightened mood the group found themselves in – a point that Dandelion, especially, was all too happy to make.

“You know, I bet this would make one hell of a story,” the poet announced cheerfully to whoever would listen.

“Planning on composing another ballad already?” Geralt asked, not bothering to hide the icy tone in his voice.

“Why shouldn't I be?” Dandelion twisted around in his saddle, and he eyed the witcher who was just behind him. “Think about it: the tale of a witcher and his friends setting off to find the lost princess of a sacked kingdom! Held in Nilfgaard’s grasp, she—”

“No.”

Dandelion looked visibly put out.

“And why not, Geralt?”

“I’ve had enough of you and your tales, Dandelion. This isn’t a story that people want to hear about. Not this time,” Geralt muttered darkly. Then he paused and added as an afterthought: “Besides, none of your stories are realistic.”

“I beg your pardon?”

This time Geralt almost smirked.

“Tell that to the ‘monsters’ who’ve apparently held me at ransom over the years, waiting for you to come rescue me. I can tell you exactly how many times those stories ended with me placating the countless angry women you’ve wooed and wronged instead, and then being forced to haul you out of there before they started throwing flower pots out of their windows at you again. Though,” and he paused again, looking thoughtful, “Vespula was probably the more monstrous of the lot, I’ll give you that.”

Zoltan guffawed loudly at this, and even Milva was unable to resist a brief snort of amusement at Geralt’s words.

“Men,” she muttered, shaking her head.

Dandelion’s face turned a shade of red that almost rivalled the colour of the feather on his cap, and he cleared his throat before turning back around in his saddle to face the road.

“No one likes anything realistic,” he said quietly.

“On the contrary, I find realism to be a rather refreshing concept,” Regis chimed in from where he was walking alongside the refugees. Up until now he had been lowering his head in conversation with the women and children, and he had otherwise not given any sign that he had been paying attention to what was being said around him. He proved them all wrong, however, and the remainder of the company turned their heads to look at him in mild surprise.

The barber-surgeon appeared unperturbed by the attention that he had suddenly garnered, and he explained himself with a warm smile on his lips. 

“After all, what is classified as being realistic is entirely up to the one telling the tale. I find it fascinating seeing the world from the eyes of another – one’s perception, Master Dandelion, is a unique and highly valued thing.”

“There you go, Dandelion,” Zoltan grinned. “Heard it straight from the doctor’s mouth!”

Dandelion muttered something unintelligible under his breath, and then he gave in with a loud sigh.

“Fine!” he exclaimed, almost throwing his hands up. “I’ll cut back on the allegory!” He shook his head and then uttered a few choice words under his breath before falling silent again. Geralt was glad for that, and he turned his attention back to their surroundings; the forest lay behind them, and with the Yaruga’s churning banks alongside them, the extent of the war-torn land could now be seen excruciatingly well. It was this that he focused on as his thoughts strayed. 

In the distance on the left-hand side of the river's banks lay hills that had, not too long past, once been lush with grass and other ripe vegetation. Now, as far as the eye could see, there lay a swath of burned fields and the air carried with it the thick stench of war. In the distance Geralt could even see smoke curling skywards, and he knew that somewhere a fire had been lit. As to whether it had been the aftermath of yet another village put to the torch, or whether it had been set deliberately as a means to burn the countless dead, however, he could only guess. The lingering and odious scent of rancid flesh and decay on the wind soon confirmed it to be the latter.

One quick glance back at the company showed that he was not the only one who had been keeping an eye on the horizon: Zoltan’s brows had furrowed and Milva’s hands had tightened around the reins of her horse. Dandelion had grown pale, and Percival was doing his best to distract the children with tales of business and commerce and other matters that they did not understand. Their eyes glazed over as he spoke, but it was enough to avert their gazes from the carnage that lay around them.

Regis, too, was silent, and in his face Geralt saw pain – cold, sharp and clear. In that solemn moment as Regis turned his eyes to him, the witcher knew that their thoughts were the same: it would be a damned miracle if they all got out of this alive and unharmed.

“Emhyr’s holding nothin' back,” Zoltan said quietly, more so to himself than to anyone else after the smell had faded somewhat and the silence had dragged on for too long. “Mahakam is looking more an’ more like the best place for me to be right now.”

 _Anywhere would be better than here,_ a niggling voice in the back of his head told Geralt. _If Ciri…_

He could not finish that thought.

Instead he sighed softly, almost silently, and returned his gaze to the horizon. He could see neither hair nor hide of Cahir, and that was at least the one sole comfort to be had from all of this. It meant that they were still safe and free from Nilfgaard's impending grasp. For now.

He saw movement out of the corner of his eye and he looked to see Regis now walking alongside him. The man merely offered a small smile, and Geralt returned it. That was another comfort, and one that he had not realised he had fully needed until now. He was grateful.

“What’s that?” Dandelion said suddenly, drawing them all back to the roads ahead as he lifted a hand and pointed ahead of him. “It looks like… people?”

Geralt frowned and straightened up in his saddle. He ran his eyes over the spot on the horizon that Dandelion had indicated and he saw that the poet had been right. Milva, too, had evidently seen the same. Around them the others of their company grew quiet, as if they had each decided to hold their breath.

“Who are they? Soldiers?” Milva asked quietly, darting her eyes first from the figures in the near-distance and then back to the witcher. Geralt shook his head.

“No.” The figures were draped in what appeared to be grey travelling cloaks, and not armour. They were all men, and there were around a dozen or so of them by his count – and they were each holding something in their hands. “They look like peasants.”

Everyone visibly relaxed somewhat, but they still remained wary the closer they drew.

And for good reason, Geralt later thought to himself as soon as he could make out the scene before him in greater detail. The peasants were standing straight and almost unmoving; so much so, in fact, that it would be easy to mistake them for the circle of rocks that they were grouped next to.

They had clearly already seen the company in turn, and they were waiting for them to approach. Geralt also saw now what it was they were all carrying in their hands, and his thoughts darkened as he realised that they were armed: he recognised shovels, picks, and six-foot pointed stakes in their grasps. He narrowed his eyes and cast his gaze over his friends: _Be wary_ , that gaze said, and he saw understanding echo in each and every one of his companion’s faces.

 _“Duvvelsheyss!”_ Zoltan swore sharply under his breath. “Cannae step one foot forwards without being thrown head first into a shitestorm.” 

Geralt was fully inclined to agree.

No one said anything else until they had come face to face with the men, and they drew their caravan to a halt. The two groups watched each other intently, taking each other in, trying to assess the situation to determine who was friend or foe. It was understandable, given the recent times of mistrust and war, but Geralt still did not like it – especially as he had the distinct impression that the peasants were looking for something in particular from them.

After a moment more of studying the company, the peasants slowly pulled away from the stones. It wasn’t until they were a few feet away that Zoltan once more broke the tense silence.

“Greetings,” he said, acknowledging the men with a nod of his head. “Been a while since we’ve seen another company on the road.”

The peasants offered faint nods and murmured agreements and salutations, but their eyes remained sweeping over the group. Zoltan paused, casting a quick glance at the others. Geralt shifted in his saddle, preparing to dismount Roach. Dandelion had frozen on Pegasus, watching cautiously, whilst Milva narrowed her eyes at the men. She steadied her horse with her hand at its neck.

Regis stepped closer to Geralt’s side, reaffirming his presence beside the witcher. Their gazes met again, briefly. Something was not right.

Zoltan cleared his throat and tried again.

“Where’s your road takin' you?” he asked, attempting to sound cheerful and unfazed. “Are you lot from the camp by the Chotla, by any chance?”

The peasants did not answer. They had evidently decided on what it was they had been looking for; their eyes narrowed in on Milva’s horse and one of the men – perhaps the eldest of the lot given his wrinkled visage – stretched a hand out towards it.

“Aye, that’ll do. The black one.”

His friends nodded and took another step forwards.

Milva’s eyes flashed.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?!”

“Milva,” Geralt warned quietly. The archer glared at him. He ignored her and instead looked back at the peasants. “What’s the meaning of this?”

“What business do ye have in these parts?” one of the peasants countered instead, ignoring Geralt’s question in favour of casting a distrusting eye over them. He appeared to be the youngest of his comrades, no more than thirty at the very least. He looked first at the witcher, then at the others – and then finally at the women and children, who up until that moment had been deathly silent.

He nodded in their direction.

“And why ye be carrying them around with ye?”

“They’re refugees from the war,” Geralt replied icily. “Their village was overrun by the Nilfgaardians. We’re trying to get them to the Chotla.” He nodded at the elder who still had his sights set on Milva’s black steed. “Now why do you want the horse?”

At the mention of the refugees the peasants seemed to relax their stances and grips on their weapons. They paused, casting a look from one man to the next and murmuring in low voices. The elder turned away from Milva’s horse to address Geralt and his company in full.

“Aye, we be from the Chotla,” he said, his voice raspy with age. “Ye be just in time, masters. We have room enough to take them, but as sure as day there’ll like not be no more space left in the following weeks. Ploughing Black One’s’ve raped our land thoroughly, they have.”

“So we gathered,” Geralt nodded. His eyes narrowed and the elder cleared his throat, correctly identifying the impatience in the witcher’s gaze. The peasant looked back to Milva’s horse.

“An’ we have our own troubles to deal with on top of soldiers and crying women and babes. We need the horse. We’re hunting a vampire.”

Geralt blinked, and it was clear that he was not the only one to be taken aback by that. He could almost feel Dandelion’s and Milva’s stunned gazes behind him, and Zoltan scratched his beard, his brows furrowing once more.

Movement again caught Geralt’s attention beside him and he turned his head to see Regis taking a slow step forwards.

“A vampire?” the barber-surgeon echoed, arching a brow. The peasants nodded grimly. 

“The beast must've passed through here, set his lair up close by,” another of the men continued. He was a stout fellow, with a mole on his face so large that it appeared ready to swallow his entire nose. “We’ve been keeping an eye on these here roads, ready to pin him down with these aspen stakes! Aye, we’ll find him and run the bastard through and he’ll not rise again!”

“And the priest gave us holy water!” another of them added, excitement shining in his bloodshot eyes as he raised a small clay pot sealed over with wax. “When we cut his head off, we’ve but to sprinkle this on the monster – it’ll burn ‘im alive!”

Geralt remained silent throughout all this, and he felt his disbelief steadily grow by the second. It had been a long time since he had last been tasked with hunting down and slaying a vampire, but even then those peasants who had given him the contract had not known what exact manner of monster it was that had hunted them at night. Because of that, he had been saved from having to witness a scene as outrageous as what he was witnessing now. He was well acquainted with folk tales and myths on how to deal with various post-Conjunction creatures – vampires, especially – but in all his memory he believed that this was the first time he had had to deal with these particular myths first-hand.

Hunting a vampire with a stake? Dousing it in water blessed by an itinerant priest? Eskel and Lambert would get a kick out of this if they were here now. If this was any other situation Geralt would have laughed. But it wasn’t, so the best he could do was to keep these thoughts to himself.

After all these men clearly believed that what they were doing was right, and Geralt knew better than to argue with a peasant who carried stakes and shovels in hand.

“A vampire, you say? Well, we may be able to help you in this regard, my good gentlemen!” Dandelion smiled, and Geralt shot him a glare to get him to remain quiet. It did not work. “As it so happens, my friend Geralt of Rivia here is a—”

“Did anyone see the vampire?” Geralt interrupted, cutting the poet off before he could do any more damage with his talkativeness. “Know of any tracks? When it attacked, what it looked like?” He narrowed his eyes. “Do you even know what kind of vampire it is?”

“Wha-what kind?” the elder echoed, looking surprised. “What ye be talking about? There’s only one kind of—”

“Wrong.”

The peasants fell silent and cast nervous glances at one another. Eventually the elder continued, his raspy voice quavering every so often as he spoke.

“We didn’t see him, nay,” he admitted. “But – how’re ye meant to see something what flies in the dark on bat’s wings, silent as the grave he makes his lair in? ‘Tis impossible, master!”

“Aye! ‘Tis the truth of it!” the man with the mole added vehemently. “’Sides, there be his attacks, and plenty of them, too! The other night when there was a full moon in the sky, he crept out of his barrow and murdered folk in the camp! He tore two people apart, ripped them into shreds! A woman and a young babe at that! Monstrous it was, and he sucked every lick o’ blood clean out of them!”

Geralt looked at him. _Interesting. But not enough to go on._

“Doesn’t necessarily mean it’s a vampire,” he said calmly. “There're plenty of other monsters that attack people when there’s a full moon. Could be a werewolf, for instance. Who told you it was a vampire, specifically?”

Instead of getting an answer, he was met with a multitude of wide-eyed stares.

“Ye be mighty learned, master,” the elder murmured at length. “How d’ye know so much?” His eyes flickered to the twin swords on Geralt’s back and he took a wary step backwards. Geralt sighed. He was starting to get tired of all of this.

“I’m a witcher.”

The peasants froze where they stood, and in their grey cloaks they looked remarkably like the stones they had been waiting by beforehand. A few of them gulped audibly, whilst the others seemed to sag in relief.

“A witcher!”

“Ye gods, they must have sent ye to us, master!”

“Doubt it,” Geralt cut them off, raising a hand. “I sent myself here. You didn’t answer my question.”

“The priest told us!” the elder exclaimed, suddenly seeming much more eager to talk to the witcher now that he knew his profession. Geralt had been hoping to avoid that; he had wanted to get to the Chotla without any more distractions. But fate had other ideas in mind, it seemed. “A venerable man, pious! He showed up at our camp not three days past when the murders happened, and told us that it was a vampire! We’ve been neglecting our prayers and donations to the church, he said. That be why the beast haunts us!”

“Aye, it’s him that told us how to deal with it, too!” the youngest man nodded. “Told us it makes its lair here in the tombs nearby, and that was where we was waiting before you showed up, Master Witcher!”

Geralt sighed, suddenly feeling as if a great weight had pushed down onto his shoulders that had both sapped his strength and drained him.

 _Always the same old shit,_ he thought bitterly. He and priests had never gotten along, which was in part largely due to the fact that in his experience he had seen more than one instance of them concocting wild tales such as this in efforts to fleece more coin from the already penniless refugees.

In fact he would not be surprised if that was indeed what was happening here, as well. War certainly brought out the worst in everyone.

He felt something warm brush against him briefly, and he looked up when Regis had touched a hand to his shoulder and had taken another step forwards, a pleasant tight-lipped smile on his mouth.

“It seems you have the situation under control, gentlemen,” he said calmly, drawing their attention to him. He gestured to Milva’s mount. “We shan’t try to interfere with you or this priest. But what remains unclear to me is why you insisted on taking this horse. I fail to see what use that would be in tracking down this vampire.”

“Yeah,” Milva glared at them. “So do I.”

“It’s a black colt!” the elder said, also pointing at the animal. “We need it to search for the vampire, else we won’t get nowhere on our own!" He returned his gaze to Geralt. "Everyone knows, as I’m sure you do too, Master Witcher, that one needs to ride a black colt around the cemetery where the vampire has its lair, and it will stop by the fiend’s place of rest! Won’t budge an inch from it!”

“That’s when you dig up the bastard during sunlight, and stick the aspen stake right into his heart!” the man with the mole chipped in.

Geralt sighed again, this time making no show of hiding it.

“Had enough of this,” he muttered quietly under his breath. He saw Regis fight a small smile alongside him.

“Geralt,” Dandelion whispered fearfully as he looked at the witcher, “is that true?”

Geralt shook his head. He almost pitied his friend for believing them.

“No.”

The poet looked considerably relieved.

“Right, enough dilly-dallying!” the elder announced, growing visibly agitated now as he extended his hand back out to Milva’s colt; the horse snorted and stamped nervously. “Give us the horse! Our very lives are on the line!”

“Are you deaf?” Milva snapped and guided her horse away from the prying hands of the peasants. “I’m not giving you my horse! Find your own!”

“We needs but borrow it—”

“Sod off!”

It all happened very quickly, then. Geralt saw Milva grow increasingly agitated; he watched as her hands raised quickly to her shoulders, her fingers dancing atop her bow and quiver of arrows. He called out to her.

“Milva, stop! They’re not worth it!”

She shot him an angered glare, but otherwise acquiesced. Regis strode to the front of the group now, holding both hands out in a placating manner in an attempt to keep the peasants at bay as Dandelion, Zoltan and Percival quickly hurried to the refugees’ sides. The women and children were growing restless at the short but near-violent display.

The peasants gaped, eyes darting from Milva, to the witcher, to Regis, and then back to Milva again. They were gripping their weapons tightly – because Geralt could see, now, that they were not afraid to use their shovels and stakes as such should need be.

Behind him he heard Zoltan swear violently; a sentiment that was immediately shared by both Dandelion and Percival.

“Gentlemen, perhaps we can resolve this peacefully,” Regis began quietly, making sure to catch the eye of each of the peasants in turn, holding their gazes to make sure that they understood each word clearly. “The horse is ours, but if a black colt is indeed what you require, then surely there's no harm in allowing Milva to ride it around the barrows instead.”

“What?!” Milva looked at him. “Like hell! I’m not going to some graveyard for them!”

“Milva,” Geralt warned again. She ignored him this time.

“Aye, she won’t,” the elder said, running his eyes up and down her figure atop the black colt before spitting onto the ground at his feet. “This here’s a man’s job. For when it comes down to it, blades will be drawn against the beast, and everyone knows a wench’s only strengths lie in the kitchen and the bedroll. A virgin’s tears, though, they may be right useful against the vampire – but we’d have to go scouring for another young maiden for you don’t quite look the part, lassie.”

A stunned silence fell upon the group following those words, and for a moment it felt as if time around them had ceased. Then, slowly, Milva dismounted and took two steps towards the man.

Geralt was powerless to stop her this time, but even if he could have he did not have the slightest intentions of doing so. After all, when Milva drew her hand back and connected her fist to the elder’s face, hard enough to crack bone and draw blood, he found himself thinking that that was exactly what he had deserved.

The peasants did not see it that way, however. They cried out, gasped, and crowded around their friend who had fallen limply to the ground. They shook him, yelled at him, tried to wake him up, but it was all for naught.

“Dead…” one of them whispered, horrified. “He’s dead!”

The man with the mole lifted his head, cold fury in his eyes.

“The wench killed him!” he yelled.

It all went to hell after that.

*****

It had been a rough few hours following that fateful meeting at the camp’s edge. Shocked into silence, Milva had had to be guided away by Geralt and taken into the custody of the others whilst the witcher sought to keep the peace with the peasants. It had almost ended in bloodshed; so eager to fight back against them were the men that they didn’t even flinch when Geralt raised a hand to his steel sword in warning. 

In the end it had been Regis who had waylaid any further harm on either side, which was something both Geralt and the rest of the company were grateful for – because if the barber-surgeon had not been there to interject and see to the injured man when he had, Geralt could not say how that afternoon would have unfolded. As it was, upon studying the peasant and seeing to his wounds, Regis had concluded that the elder had suffered a concussion and that, to the great relief of his comrades, he was indeed alive and he would indeed still live.

This did not fully alleviate the tensions, however, and soon after Geralt and his friends found themselves en route to the camp at the behest of the peasants, who had claimed that the venerable priest would seek to punish them for their crimes.

There was no way to refuse them, not unless the company wished to stain the ground further with peasant blood – and that was something that Geralt especially could not afford. After all they now had a direct route to the Chotla open to them, and perhaps speaking with this priest was not entirely beyond reason, the witcher thought. It may also earn them some deal of coin, particularly if this so-called vampire of theirs was in fact a very real threat.

So after allowing the peasants to lay the elder upon a cradle they had made, which Geralt and Dandelion tied between Roach and Pegasus, they proceeded down the final stretch of the eastern road. 

It was a slow journey that took up much of the remaining hours of sunlight; their pace was hampered significantly by the wounded man and the peasants themselves who cursed them with every glance they spared in their direction. Milva in particular was a great source of their ire, and Geralt had had to touch his hand to his sword again in an effort to get the men to back away.

She remained silent through it all which worried Geralt. But she offered him a shake of her head when he cast a questioning gaze at her; she would be fine in time.

Beside him Regis remained watchful of the wounded, and when the men weren’t itching to strike back at the archer, they would question Regis mercilessly about the wellbeing of their companion. Geralt pitied him, and for not the first time he found himself admiring Regis’ composure. Not once did the barber-surgeon fail to offer a placating smile or a word of reassurance, and though he was tired – deeply, Geralt could see – he never showed it. To anyone except Geralt, that is. He caught the fatigue on Regis’ face in those rare moments when the barber-surgeon would turn to look back at the witcher, and Geralt felt something ache deep down inside him in harsh response.

They reached the camp by nightfall, and their long and arduous journey was met with the depressing sight of men, women and children huddled together in groups, filthy, exhausted, and only eating what meagre supplies they could spare. Deserters from Temeria's army stood watch as if to guard the refugees and others affected by the war, and their weapons and armour glinted dully in the firelight from the numerous campfires littered across the trampled muddy ground.

It was almost impossible to estimate how many were gathered there, though Geralt felt that it would not be entirely improbable to assume that the fugitives numbered somewhere in the hundreds at the very least, and after so many nights on the road, to now be surrounded by so many others felt oppressive. The smell, too, was unforgiving; the rank of decay and various other odours from both rotten food and bodily functions permeated the air. It was all Geralt and his company could do to not clutch their mouths and gag.

The only cause for respite they were met with as they passed their way through the camp’s borders was that shelters had been constructed, and the campfires were hot. There would be a place for them to stay the night – something at long last other than tents and uneven forest ground.

Yet it was a hope they knew that, like all other hopes on this journey, would be short-lived. 

It started when they met the guards.

Geralt had told the others to stay back whilst he had gone to speak with them at the peasants' impatient commands, and this was how he learned that the priest had since gone away on business. As the peasants conferred with the armed watchmen in the shadows of the night, Geralt saw the faces of the guards become increasingly agitated and distrusting as they were informed of the circumstances that had seen the witcher and his company arrive at the Chotla's borders. That distrust only grew tenfold when the injured elder on the cradle was brought forwards, and they were all left to gaze at his still unconscious form.

Geralt felt the anger behind those gazes that were cast over him and his comrades, and he felt his hands curl by his sides. But by some miracle that night, he was not called to defend his friends against the refugees. Not this time, at least.

“The priest will judge ‘em on the morrow,” one of the guards spat in Geralt’s direction as he waved the peasants off. “With a bit of luck that’ll be another couple of freaks to add to the pyre to serve as a lesson.”

The peasants guffawed loudly and fixed triumphant glares at the witcher and his company. Geralt narrowed his eyes. He felt a hand rest on his shoulder and he only allowed his gaze to pull away when Regis spoke quietly beside him.

“Come, Geralt.”

Geralt followed gladly, though he did not forget the words that guard had spoken. It would seem that once more they had arrived in the wrong place at the wrong time. If this was any other situation he would have found it somewhat amusing.

He fell into step beside his companion, and Regis guided him through the throng of bodies that swarmed around campfire after campfire in this crowded space. The others had managed to catch sight of a considerably more private area on the outskirts where they had first entered, and it was there that they had settled down with hands outstretched eagerly towards the orange flames of the fire before them.

However, as the witcher and barber-surgeon approached them, one quick look at those gathered revealed to Geralt that the company was suddenly short of a few key members. The women and children were not there.

It later turned out, if the raucous screams and cries of ecstatic joy that rumbled through the campsite were anything to go by, that those women and children they had been sheltering for the course of their perilous journey had at long last been reunited with other relatives and friends. Geralt watched the refugees being picked up, hugged and kissed by their friends and families with tears glistening upon their cheeks, and he felt a wave of satisfaction crest within him.

It was good to see that here, at what felt like the very end of the world, there could still be some small hope that yet remained.

“Warms your heart, doesn’t it?” Zoltan remarked with a smile on his bearded face as he watched. “Brings a tear to your eye.”

“Almost like a fairy tale ending,” Dandelion noted, nodding his head. “I could never end a ballad like that.”

“Then don’t. Or better yet, don’t write the ballad at all,” Geralt groused, sitting down in front of the fire now and relishing the warmth that greeted him. He ignored Dandelion’s protests and affronted looks, and instead focused on feeling the cold seeping away from his bones.

He was soon distracted, however, by a small figure cautiously approaching him.

It was one of the children that they had up until now been watching over: a girl with mousey blonde hair tied in scraggly plaits that hung past her scrawny shoulders. Geralt recognised her as being the child whom he had felt gazing at him every so often behind his back at the beginning of their travels together. She had always been one of the very few of the refugees who had never outright feared him.

Having noticed her presence too, the others also gazed at the girl in turn. She was holding a small bouquet of wild flowers.

“Th-thank you,” she squeaked. The words spilled slowly and with difficulty from her lips in an accent that carried a foreign lilt to it. Geralt recalled that the Common tongue was not one regularly spoken in the village that she and the others had been rescued from. She held up the bouquet and continued, pressing on in her attempt to communicate to them: “For saving my aunty and my brother and me. You are very nice!”

Her wide hazel eyes darted first from Regis, then to Milva, to Zoltan, to Dandelion, to Percival, and then lastly to Geralt himself. He felt the weight of her gaze and smiled. And simply nodded.

“You’re welcome,” he said quietly. She grinned. 

“Here,” she squeaked again, and she stepped closer. “I picked all of these flowers for you!” She held them out, and one by one the company took one of the flowers that were in her hands; they were an assortment of wild lavender, daisies and violets. “I do not believe what aunty told me at first,” the girl continued when her hands were empty. “You are not bad people. You were all very nice to us! Uncle Zoltan, you told us jokes – Uncle Dandelion, you sang for us! Uncle Regis, you talked with us and taught us many things, and you helped my aunty get better! She wanted me to thank you!”

Regis smiled warmly at her and clutched the lavender he had taken from her hand.

“It was no trouble at all,” he said. “I’m glad she’s now well recovered.”

She grinned again, and she looked at Milva.

“And Aunty Milva, I like you a lot! You are very brave, and I want to be like you when I get older! I picked the prettiest flowers for you,” she gushed, reaching into a small bag at her waist and pulling out a smaller bouquet of wildflowers, fresh and fragrant. Milva stared at her for a long time, and her hand wavered as she slowly accepted her gift.

“Thank you,” she said softly in a tone of voice that Geralt was sure he had never heard from her before. The girl nodded and at last turned to look at Geralt again.

He wasn’t expecting anything – parents had for centuries warned their children away from witchers, in no small part thanks to the infamous Law of Surprise that they were wont to invoke at times upon returning from a contract. Geralt could not blame them. After all, he had done the same thing. He had seen how Pavetta and Calanthe had reacted when he had voiced those fated words that night, all those years ago. He remembered how these refugees had reacted to him, too, when they had first met before they had started travelling together. But if it had not been for Regis that night... 

He was lost to those thoughts and those memories for a brief instant before returning his attention to the child. And, once again, the witcher ended up finding himself being proven wrong. 

“And Mister Witcher, sir,” the girl mumbled, her cheeks reddening as she looked into his golden cat eyes, and through a remarkable show of perseverance she did not look away: “You saved us. You kept us safe. The others, my aunty, my brother, they do not know how to thank you. But they wanted to. We will not ever forget you.”

Geralt watched her for a long, tense moment, and he found himself at a loss for words. He was used to the threats, used to the hounds being set on him from village after village, and used to people the land over cussing and spitting at him whenever he walked by. Rarely was it that a witcher was thanked or given more than a cursory glance for his deeds.

He felt everyone’s eyes on him, and one set of eyes in particular. Regis was watching him, and Geralt could feel the man’s stare burn deep into him, as if his gaze was saying in that moment: _There you are, Geralt. Proof positive that your actions have merit._

He again remembered the conversation that they had had in that cave, all those weeks ago. The conversation that had been the very beginning of it all. Something ached within Geralt. He recognised that feeling as satisfaction.

He exhaled softly and nodded again.

“I don’t hear that very often,” he said, just as quietly. “Thanks.”

The girl smiled and lifted her hand in a wave, and she took one final look back at Geralt and his company around the bonfire before skipping back off towards her family. She soon became lost amongst the crowds.

Geralt watched her leave, and once again he retreated into his own thoughts as his companions fell into silence.

“A charming lass,” Zoltan chortled heartily after a time, eyeing the daisy in his hand. “Veritable ray of sunshine, that one.”

Whatever else his friends commented on, Geralt did not hear it. Or rather, he chose not to. He felt warmth beside him as Regis sat down next to the witcher in front of the fire. Their shoulders brushed together in the barest of touches.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Geralt muttered quietly to him, so that the others wouldn't hear. Regis did not answer, but a small, private smile formed on his lips. Geralt chuckled tiredly.

Around them the hushed conversations between the various refugee groups grew to a steady background hum that, from where the company was located at the camp’s edge, was loud enough to mask their voices and rendered them unable to be overheard. It was just as well, too, as the absence of the women and children and the onset of the night brought with it new fears and new worries that Geralt and his companions now found themselves facing – the so-called ‘vampire’ the peasants spoke to them of before, in particular.

It was no surprise, Geralt thought, that their attentions had now returned to this new pressing issue – and so quickly, at that. If he was honest with himself he had been glad for the distraction the girl had provided earlier; for a moment he had been able to forget about the delusions of peasants and the demanding nature of his work and his mission. But only for a moment.

There was no full moon that night, but its silvery glow could still be clearly discerned from behind the thin mist of clouds that drew across its celestial surface. In the darkness a wolf howled its mournful lament, providing a rather fitting background for the macabre change in subject.

“So what about the monster, Geralt?” Zoltan stared into the flames of their fire, waiting until the girl was well out of sight and earshot before continuing. “Think it’s really a vampire? You heard what those men said…”

“I did,” Geralt agreed. “It doesn’t prove anything.”

“Are you sure?” the dwarf asked cautiously, seeming unconvinced. “Their descriptions of the beast were damn near terrifying.”

“And it’s still not enough to go on – could be necrophages, could be wild dogs.” Geralt shrugged. He thrust his hands outwards to the fire again, and once more attempted to warm his cold fingers. “All we have is the description of how it killed, which was largely unhelpful at best. I need to see the monster, see the corpses to be sure.” He nodded to the small group of guards who had seen to the injured peasant that they had brought in. “And this priest of theirs is away on business. Guards told me so earlier. He’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Couldn’t you just search for the corpses now?” Percival asked, arching a brow. Geralt shrugged again.

“I could. But I’d rather see this priest of theirs first. He’s calling the shots around here.”

“And it would be unwise to directly interfere with another’s investigation of the case,” Regis agreed, nodding contemplatively as he too gazed long into the fire. “Especially a man as learned as he, if we are to take the peasant’s beliefs about this venerable gentleman wholeheartedly into account.”

“Which we don’t,” Milva scoffed, throwing a stray stick from the ground into the fire and appearing to at last return to her usual sharp-tongued self.

“Well, when it comes down to it,” Dandelion said, shrugging, “you’re probably right, Geralt.”

“Probably?” Geralt arched a brow. Dandelion nodded, and he looked unusually serious.

“They said the dead had been torn apart. That’s not something vampires do.” Seeing that he had caught everyone’s attention with that statement Dandelion sat up straight, visibly savouring the sight of everyone’s eyes fixed upon him. “I read it in a respectable book once – vampires suck the blood from their victim’s necks, going straight for the arteries. The victims almost always survive.”

“Really? What book was this?” Geralt asked, feigning a look of intrigue. He knew what book Dandelion was referring to. He also knew that the author’s knowledge of post-Conjunction creatures was unfounded and based entirely off of folklore and mythology. It was a book of fairy tales, at best.

“Physiologus,” Dandelion announced proudly. Geralt nodded.

“Not something we witchers read in Kaer Morhen,” he said slowly, looking back into the fire. “I wonder why.”

Dandelion narrowed his eyes at him and appeared to be set on retorting when Geralt raised a hand and cut him off.

“The book’s full of shit, Dandelion. Next you’ll be agreeing with those peasants and saying you can only kill a vampire after dragging it out into sunlight with a stake shoved up its ass.”

“A rather… interesting method,” Regis mused, and a steady look of amusement crossed his pale face. Geralt scoffed.

“Well how _does_ a vampire kill then, Geralt?” Dandelion exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air. “You’re the expert after all. You can’t tell me a vampire tore those people to shreds?”

“I can’t tell you anything,” Geralt said calmly, looking back at Dandelion. “It’s a damn long list of monsters to go through.” 

“Well in the case of higher vampires, I agree with Dandelion,” Regis suddenly announced. Everyone looked at him. Geralt raised a brow, watching the man closely. “From what I understand, alps, katakans, moolas, bruxae and nosferats are not generally known to attack their victims in such a bestial manner.”

“Oh, aye?” Zoltan leaned forward with interest. “Seems our barber-surgeon knows more than you, Dandelion. How about that.”

“I merely try to equip myself with as much worldly knowledge as possible,” Regis smiled, seeing the affronted look on Dandelion’s face. “That should not discount his admirable attempts to do the same.”

Dandelion looked like he was about to respond, but Regis, too, cut him off.

“Now as for lesser vampires, however, they are far more likely to abandon all care in their bloodlust – so much so, in fact, that they have often been known to exert sheer brutality over their victim’s remains. Ekimmarae, fleders and garkains act solely on instinct like many other creatures. They are not driven by emotion like their cousins.”

There was a brief silence that fell over the group as all eyes continued to remain glued to the barber-surgeon. Geralt was the one to break that silence. He whistled lowly, impressed, as he gazed at the man sitting beside him with unbridled admiration.

 _Well, well._ He should not have been surprised, and perhaps some small part of him wasn’t. But Regis, as was his wont, continued to defy all expectation.

“You didn’t leave out a single category of vampire,” he said, and Regis turned to look at him. His black eyes appeared to glow from the reflection of the firelight, and Geralt, once again, found himself searching that unreadable gaze for _something_. He smiled. “You didn’t mention any of the imaginary vampires either – the ones that exist in Dandelion’s copy of Physiologus.”

Dandelion uttered a huff of annoyance which Geralt chose to ignore. 

“As I said,” Regis answered softly, not taking his eyes away from the witcher, “I try to keep well-informed on worldly matters.”

“And would their priest know how to deal with such creatures?” Percival asked, scoffing as he picked his teeth with the sharp edge of a toothpick he had been whittling since they had sat down.

Geralt looked away from Regis' fathomless eyes with considerable effort, and he affixed his gaze on the gnome.

“It depends what kind of priest he is,” he said quietly. “That’s another question I’d like to know the answer to.”

“Given that vampires are prone to flying silently through the night on bat’s wings,” Regis added, smiling thinly once more, “it would stand to reason that perhaps even this priest may not yet have all the answers we seek.”

Geralt chuckled, finding some degree of amusement at the subtle sarcasm he had sensed in the barber-surgeon’s words. 

“I once spent two months living in a castle because some villagers were convinced a vampire made its lair there,” he said, the memory returning vividly to the forefront of his mind. It had been one of the few times that he had ever been contracted to kill such a monster; there was a reason that witchers so rarely agreed to hunt them down. Regis had raised a very valid point with his words, one that explained that reason in full – after all, how _could_ one kill a creature that moved silently and gave no tracks?

Geralt's smile thinned into a grimace. Not even a witcher could answer that. 

“Wasn’t any vampire there, but they fed me well.”

There was a brief silence, and Regis was, again, the one to break it. His voice was level, but as Geralt looked back at him he noticed that the man now avoided his gaze.

“But surely there have been times where the rumour you’d been chasing had turned out to hold some grain of truth to it, correct?”

Geralt nodded. It was not the fondest of memories. He had dealt with only one vampire to date – and the ekimmara, though a lesser creature, had possessed a power and ferocity that was impossible to compare to any fiend or wraith before it. Regis continued to stare calmly into the flames.

“And in such cases I presume that you had no choice but to defend yourself.” He turned now, watching Geralt from the corner of his eyes. “Did the monster die by your sword?”

Geralt watched him closely, again unable to read the look on the man’s face. He nodded again, slowly.

“Yeah.”

Regis seemed to have expected the answer; he too nodded, and another unreadable emotion flickered through his eyes. He exhaled softly, though none but Geralt noticed it. An irritated sigh from Milva interrupted the moment; they were left to return their attention to the archer as she stretched and stood.

“All your talk is doing my head in. Vampires or no vampires, it doesn’t make any difference,” she spat. “The witcher will see to it in the morning, so it’s about time you men start worrying about something else.” She looked at them all. “Like where we’re going to sleep tonight, for starters. We’re in a camp with shelter. I don’t want to wait for the huts to fill.”

She was off before they could all so much as react.

“Is it just me, or is she getting pricklier the more the days go by?” Dandelion asked, eyeing her as she left.

“Give it a rest, Dandelion,” Geralt said. “Let her go. She has more reason than any of us.” He recalled all too well their earlier encounter with the peasants. Again, he could not blame her.

The poet sighed, eventually nodding before he too made to stand up.

“Then I’ll be off myself, gentlemen,” he announced. “She’s right on one thing – if we’re to get any hope of sleep tonight, we should try to do so now.”

The sentiment was shared by the rest of them, and gradually one by one they left the burning fire in search of lodgings in the makeshift, rancid camp. All of them except for Geralt, who lingered where he was a while longer, lost in thought. Regis, too, remained beside him. He had not even made to move from his place beside the witcher as the others bid their farewells. Geralt was thankful for that, and for the cover of the night and what small amount of privacy was afforded them in that moment. In the tumultuous currents of his mind, Regis' presence seemed the only grounding force.

“What are your thoughts?” Regis asked after a while, turning his head to look back at Geralt. Geralt lifted his gaze to the thick blanket of night around them.

“You heard the guards,” he said quietly, thinking back to the conversation he had had with the guardsmen when they had first arrived. It was something he had been hesitant to think back on until now. “Something’ll be happening tomorrow. They mentioned the pyre.”

Regis nodded.

“You didn’t inform the others – that was wise.”

There was another short silence, but it was not uncomfortable.

“But not what’s important here. Not yet, anyway,” Geralt added. He frowned. “Something tells me I’ll be wasting my time searching for this so-called vampire of theirs.”

“How so?” Regis asked. Geralt gestured to the camp behind them, and to the people who yet remained around their fires, speaking lowly to one another.

“Take a look around you.”

Regis did so, though Geralt knew that the man had already long ago arrived at the same conclusion that the witcher had: the only monster here, the only true threat, was a question of faith.

“Those gentlemen informed us that the monster had slain two others under the light of the full moon,” Regis said slowly, his eyes darting from one peasant to the next, “and yet these people still remain remarkably calm.”

Geralt nodded with each word spoken. Regis smiled thinly and turned his attention back to the fire.

“And what do you make of that?” Geralt asked.

“That there is more to this threat. Much more. Either the matter isn’t nearly as dire as those men made it out to be, or the people believe so strongly in this priest’s words and his guidance that they simply do not consider the issue one of any relevance, should a monster indeed be terrorising them.”

Geralt held Regis’ gaze. _Exactly._

“Yes, Geralt,” Regis continued softly, returning Geralt’s look, “I believe your concerns are well-founded.” 

“Which is why I’ll be wasting my time,” Geralt finished. “To their minds there’s no problem that needs solving. And if there is, this priest of theirs is the only one who can solve it for them. They won’t do anything without his say-so – they probably can’t even take a shit without him approving it.” He chuckled darkly. “I’ve seen it too many times before. He’s got them on a damn leash and they don’t even know it. Or if they do, they let it happen.” He narrowed his eyes. “There’s nothing that can be done against that kind of stupidity.”

Regis watched him carefully, an odd look on his face. If Geralt were to hazard a guess, he would say that the expression was closer to curiosity.

“War places many in difficult situations,” Regis said slowly. “Situations that they simply cannot control.”

Geralt sighed.

“I know,” he muttered. “I know.”

He saw Regis offer a small smile out of the corner of his eye, and Geralt looked back at him when he felt the light pressure of the man's hand on his shoulder. As he focused on that and as he focused on his companion, Geralt found himself momentarily distracted; he could feel the warmth from that hand, and the warmth of Regis’ body beside his, just as he felt the warmth of the fire and the warmth in those coal-black eyes.

Once again he found Regis to be the sole grounding force in the torrent that was his mind. Once again his eyes darted briefly to the man’s lips and Geralt found himself wanting. He thought back to that night, and the desires exchanged when they had been enraptured in the budding beginnings of ecstasy’s sweet, delicious hold; an unspoken promise had been made then, sealed in kisses and roaming touches – something far more intimate than mere words and their sometimes hollow meanings.

_“Do you wish to pursue this?”_

He had never been so sure. And here, now, of all places, he wanted nothing more than to remind Regis of that.

It was funny how things worked out. 

“I shall leave you to it.” Regis tightened his hold on Geralt’s shoulder for a brief moment before standing up. The lingering stare he fixed on the witcher, however, indicated that Geralt’s flickering gaze upon the barber-surgeon’s lips had not gone unnoticed. Geralt understood what was left unsaid in the following silence and he offered Regis a barely perceptible nod; this was not to be a brief parting. Should they wish to make good on that unspoken promise, they at long last had a chance presented to them to do so. In fact, it may very well be the only such chance. Many things in life were uncertain – Geralt’s path and the paths of his companions even more so. He would not let this go to waste.

“I’ll find you later,” Geralt said, and with those short words his intent was made.

He was answered with a familiar tight-lipped smile, and in the campfire-illuminated night Geralt watched Regis retreat into the shadows and crowds. Part of him wondered at how easily the man seemed to slip away, leaving what felt like a hollow space where he should have been – simply as if he had ceased to exist the moment he had entered the throng of villagers.

 _Skill like that could be handy_ , Geralt thought to himself, amused. There had been many times when he himself wished for the crowds to swallow him whole. But, alas, he had long ago resigned himself to the fact that his golden cat eyes and twin swords would never allow for such a possibility. Someone always wanted to find him, to ask him for help with the most mundane matters. And never did he get a thanks in return.

He thought back to the little girl with the mousey blonde hair.

At least, he had never been thanked properly until that night. He smiled faintly, shaking his head and sighing. He stood from the log he had been sitting on and stretched his arms above his head. His swords clunked together on his back as he did so, and he felt the soothing ring of silver and steel as he touched a hand briefly to their hilts.

It was a witcher’s lot in life, as Vesemir would have put it. To do the tasks that no one else wanted to do; to travel the road ever coinless. Thanks accounted for nothing. But, as Geralt was quickly learning, perhaps it did not always have to be that way.

Regis, damn him, was right.

“He’ll get a kick out of that,” Geralt muttered aloud to himself, unable to resist the small chuckle that pulled from his throat. He kept an eye on the sky and the surrounding forests and fields as he moved through the camp, abandoning the warmth of the fire as he made his way to their horses.

A few young boys and two older men and women were eyeing them off; Geralt recognised the greed in their eyes and sighed. He did not need to guess what they were thinking: Geralt, Milva and Dandelion all had fine and sturdy horses, and in a world where a war was ravaging the lands, a peasant could earn almost a soldier’s entire wage for selling off one healthy steed.

The villagers glanced at him as he approached, and one look at the swords on his back was all it took for them to scramble back, bodies hunched over in deference as he walked up to Roach and settled her with a steady pat on her neck.

“B-beggin’ your pardon, master,” one of the men mumbled, almost tripping over himself in his hurry to leave. Geralt ignored him, as he ignored the rest of them as they scurried away. Roach snorted, and Pegasus pawed the ground. Milva’s black colt gazed balefully at the world around it. Geralt couldn’t blame the creature.

He remained there with them for a while longer, ensuring that they were well-fed. All the while he waited; just like earlier on, he still had not seen any further sign of Cahir that day. It again gave him some peace of mind, knowing that should the man show up that night it would have meant that Nilfgaard was indeed already on the move. So for now he felt that he could almost truly relax. 

He stood there for a further ten minutes, fifteen, twenty – and at last he stepped back, satisfied that all was well. Or as well as it could be.

He slipped into the crowds, and whether it was by some game of fate or thanks to some otherworldly influence entirely unknown, Geralt was not once spared a further glance from the refugees, and he was allowed to slip past them all unhindered.

He found the dilapidated collection of run-down huts supplied to the villagers, and he hid his smile from the world as he approached.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Explicit content warning for this chapter.

The door closed silently behind him, shutting off the few remaining hums of conversation from the camp. The hut was small, barely put together, barely standing, but for such a run-down thing it was clear to see that it had still weathered through far worse storms than the war. As it was, the entire western side of the Chotla had been turned into a makeshift set of lodgings with huts, tents and wagons stretching almost as far as the eye could see. They were an easy target here. Too easy. But Geralt did not allow himself to think any further on that tonight. He could not.

“Where’re the others?”

The figure seated on the edge of a loose bedroll that had been thrown down upon the floor watched him calmly in the night; Geralt, once again, was struck by the unerring way in which Regis gazed at him despite the darkness.

“Not far. The gentlemen have found a rather mournful looking hut facing the Yaruga’s waters,” Regis answered softly. “I believe Milva wished for some privacy.”

Geralt nodded. He had expected as much.

“Good.”

He looked around, again taking stock of their miserable – though thankfully dry and still standing – lodgings. It was barely able to house a group of five. Geralt had seen families twice that number in the cold outside, and he could only imagine the difficulties that they would face when it came time to retire for the night. What bare amenities there were in this meagre abode wore the rust of time and misuse. Upon closer inspection of the broken, tarnished and shattered pots and pans that had been left lying on the ground from the hut’s previous inhabitants, it was clear to see that this village on the Chotla had been abandoned long before the war had ravaged the land. If Geralt honed his senses and focused on the remnants, the still-lingering threads of tracks, marks and scents, he could have discerned the exact manner in which the place had been evacuated so quickly. But he did not. He wanted to forget it all for one night.

Scattered moonlight filtered through the cracks in the door and windows, casting an ominous glow upon the straw-lined ground. It smelled of mould and rotten wood.

“Nice place,” Geralt said, his voice dripping with a distaste that he made no efforts to hide. He took a step closer.

“I too would desire a far more appealing and comfortable abode, but you know as well as I that this camp is the only modicum of safety many of these people have found since the Nilfgaardians advanced,” Regis answered, watching Geralt as the witcher slowly approached. The barber-surgeon offered a small smile, pained and apologetic.

“Don’t take it so personally,” Geralt sighed, coming to a halt now in front of the man. “Nothing you could have done about it.”

“No. But it doesn’t take a learned man to see how this knowledge weighs upon the shoulders of all who stay here. Even you, Geralt.”

“Me?” Geralt arched a brow. Regis nodded.

“You see the families gathered outside and your immediate thoughts fly to your Cirilla.” Regis’ voice was a soft whisper, but Geralt heard the words as clearly as he heard the slow – too slow – beat of the man’s heart. He chuckled. It was a bitter sound.

“Wouldn’t yours if you were in my shoes?” he asked. Regis gazed at him and nodded again.

“They would.”

Geralt believed him. He watched in silence as Regis then lifted a hand, reaching out until he had gently clasped Geralt’s wrist. The warmth of his hold was far preferable to the cold that permeated the hut, and without thinking Geralt turned his fingers so that he could more easily seek that warmth out. If he had had a way with words like Dandelion he may even have compared Regis to an anchor in that moment – the only thing that could keep him grounded and settled in amongst the storm as his grip tightened on Regis' hand in turn.

But he didn’t have Dandelion's finesse with such things, so he did not say anything. He was never any good with words anyway.

“We’ll find her, Geralt.”

Geralt looked back into Regis’ eyes. He saw a familiar expression there. It was determination; the same dogged determination he had seen that first night of a man who believed in their words unfailingly. Geralt appreciated the sentiment.

“Seem pretty sure of that.” He smiled, but the witcher still had doubts that this journey would have anything remotely akin to a happy ending, or as happy an ending as could be allowed for a witcher.

And it wasn’t just for him, either. Somehow, deep down, he knew that he would not be the only one who would end up facing more than their fair share of sorrows and heartbreak before their time together drew to a close.

He feared for his friends and for Ciri more than he feared for his own life, but he would not voice those thoughts aloud. He could not. He did not know how to.

Thankfully Regis seemed to understand. He always did. His hold tightened once again, and his other hand lifted to join the one already encircled around Geralt’s fingers.

“I am,” he replied simply. “Because you vowed to rescue her, as we had vowed to do the very same when we began our journey alongside you.” He did not seem surprised by Geralt’s silence following those words, but he knew that they eased the ache in the witcher’s heart. Regis’ smile turned knowing as he chuckled softly and slowly let his hands drop. “But that’s not what you came to talk about, is it?”

Geralt felt the loss of the warmth and he found that he almost immediately regretted it, but despite himself he still allowed a smirk to touch his lips. It was all he could do for now. 

“Not really.”

“As I suspected.” It was then that Regis’ gaze sharpened tenfold, and he once again met Geralt’s eyes in the darkness of the hut immediately and with purpose. He did not say anything else – he did not need to. They both knew why Geralt had come; why they were both here, now, in this place, at this time.

Regis' lips were inviting; they were warm to replace the warmth that had been lost when his fingers had lowered away from Geralt’s own. Geralt revelled in that warmth and in his kiss as he stepped closer now to close the distance. He cupped Regis’ face with both hands, and Regis tilted his head up willingly.

It was a blessing to feel only this and nothing else, Geralt thought hazily somewhere in the deepest, blackest pits of his mind. A low sound fell from his lips – a groan of satisfaction – but it was immediately swallowed by their kiss as he fell further into Regis’ gentle guiding hands. The man’s dexterous fingers grasped at Geralt’s hair and tightened in a firm, reassuring hold. Geralt groaned again; he felt Regis smile and the witcher chuckled into the sweetness that was the barber-surgeon’s mouth. 

The movement of their lips was slow as they pressed back and forth into each other. This kiss was nothing like the urgent, fevered passions that the cover of night in that forest had provided. But it was for the best, Geralt thought. He preferred it this way. It meant more to him now than it ever could, now that they could at long last have this night to themselves. Even if it was just for a moment. 

Yet one thing remained that bothered him: they were close, but not close enough. Geralt wished to change that, and from the way that Regis tightened his hold on the witcher as he dropped his hands to Geralt's waist, it was clear that Geralt was not of one mind on this. This knowledge pleased him – indeed it pleased them both – and their kiss steadily deepened until soft sighs of pleasure made themselves known from Regis’ throat in turn to eagerly answer each long, low noise that was coaxed from Geralt's chest. Geralt felt a sigh echo from deep within him and he cupped Regis’ pale cheeks more firmly in his grasp, anchoring Regis to him just as Regis had done to him before.

It was with a great force of effort that Geralt then slowly pulled away, and in so doing he wilfully ignored the sluggish beating of his heart and the quickened rise and fall of his chest as he breathed uneven breaths. Regis watched him with heated obsidian black eyes, and his lips were kiss-reddened and enticing. Want and yearning was reflected in his gaze, and Geralt deeply desired to answer it. He swallowed and resisted the urge to dive back in, to close the gap once more. He would do so, of course, but not like this. He raised his hands to the straps of the harness that held his swords upon his back; undoing the leather clasps he eased both steel and silver blades off and laid them gently upon the ground, placing them away from the bedroll and out of arm’s reach.

Regis waited patiently, and his hands tightened the hold that he still kept upon either side of Geralt’s hips. His grip was firm, secure, and a spike of adrenaline coursed thickly like lifeblood in Geralt’s veins.

The moonlight that filtered in streams through the battered windows fell upon the twin blades; Geralt held the man’s gaze, watching Regis as the barber-surgeon’s eyes now flickered minutely to the hilt of the witcher's silver blade lying bare, untouched, and so far away. Silence rang throughout the hut momentarily. There was something unspoken in this; Geralt watched with interest as Regis studied the weapon, before at long last turning his attention back to the witcher. Something in his eyes as he fixed a searching gaze upon Geralt voiced a question that Regis could not ask.

And even if he did ask it, Geralt was not sure that he had the answer.

He suspected many things. He had his doubts, he had his concerns, but as he met that patient stare Geralt knew that none of it mattered. Not yet, anyway. Not here. Not now. He was reminded of the weight of the medallion on his neck, where it remained still and unmoving just as it had always been.

Milva had asked him once if he trusted the barber-surgeon. Geralt was quickly beginning to realise just how much he had come to do so. How could he not, when Regis had only ever looked at him with an understanding that no one else could possess? When he saw through him in ways that left him bared and open like never before? When he looked at him and treated him like he was a man instead of a freak, a mutant, a _thing?_

So Geralt did the only thing that he could do in that moment: he reached out, cupped Regis’ jaw firmly in his hands once more, and fell into him with a fervour that set their desires aflame. He guided Regis back, and Regis pulled at Geralt’s hips again to help ease the witcher down atop him as they fell to the floor. Their bodies collided roughly and soft grunts of pleasure passed between them as hands grew eager and roamed.

Regis was careful, Geralt noted, as the man’s long fingers brushed across the witcher's leather jacket and teased at the buttons and belts that tied it together. Geralt smirked, appreciating the caution however needless it was, and he sealed Regis' inviting lips with another kiss, and then another, and another after that; he wanted to consume and be consumed by the heat of their caresses, and the soft laugh that rumbled deep within Regis' chest as the barber-surgeon deftly popped one button free and then the next was its own reward as he answered each slide of their mouths with a passion that hungrily matched the witcher's own.

Geralt smiled when their hands met atop his chest, and he glided his fingers once again over Regis’ own. He felt the man’s patient gaze bore once more into him and Geralt pulled back so that their faces were mere inches away. He returned Regis’ steady, penetrating gaze and made no effort to hide how such a look affected him; his breath quickened and his blood coursed, and as if in sharp response to this – because Geralt knew that it would be near impossible to hide how Regis made him feel in that moment – Regis’ black eyes seemed to darken even more. _Intoxicating_ – that was what Geralt would describe the sight as, if he had a way with words.

Regis smiled. He knew well what Geralt was thinking. Of course he did.

Geralt chuckled and tightened his grip on those warm hands, and together they helped pull the witcher's jacket off of his shoulders. His medallion glowed in the pale moonlight as the garment was tossed to the ground, the ornament bared for them to see, and Regis’ eyes dipped down to observe it. He reached out a slender finger to touch the stylised wolf in its centre.

Geralt found himself fascinated with the care that Regis gave it as he held the medallion in his palm – reverently, as if fearing that it would so much as shatter should he let it go now. Something unspoken again flashed in his obsidian eyes, but that look soon vanished as Regis dipped his head. His grey locks hid his face in shadow, and Geralt, confused by the suddenness with which Regis avoided his gaze, made to reach out and guide Regis' head back up so that he could meet his eyes once more. He soon discovered that his concern was needless; his medallion was lowered with care back to his chest, and Geralt felt warm lips graze the column of his neck. His eyes slid closed and another soft sigh escaped him, and he tightened his hold in Regis’ hair as the man pressed one slow kiss after another to the curve of his throat. Pleasure shot through Geralt's spine, and his heart again pounded in time with each of his uneven breaths.

In the haze he felt hands pull at his undershirt, tugging it free from the confines of his breeches. Geralt let him, eager for Regis to take control.

“I wish to know something, Geralt,” and here Geralt’s breath hitched when warm lips trailed higher to the lobe of his ear, Regis whispering softly in-between kisses as Geralt’s undershirt slipped off his scarred shoulders and was tugged off, “are you still certain that this is the best idea?”

Geralt felt the coolness of the night air against his bared chest, but he found he did not much care for it when Regis’ body – something much warmer, firmer and altogether far more distracting – was pinned against him. The fabric of Regis’ clothing brushed against his naked torso, and in answer to the man’s heated question Geralt merely slipped his hands through the loops, buckles and ties of Regis' tunic.

“Having second thoughts?” Geralt murmured, grinning as he felt Regis smile against his neck in response to the witcher’s eagerness. Geralt ducked his head to plant a heavy kiss against Regis’ jaw, and he felt more than heard the man’s soft intake of breath.

“No.” It was said with such conviction that Geralt found himself pause, and his fingers grew still. He felt Regis inhale another shaken breath and then the man pulled back so that they were again face to face.

In the moonlight Regis’ skin seemed even paler than was his norm; shadows clung to his eyes and his gaunt cheeks, shadows that were emphasised further by the loose locks of grey hair that hung low past his shoulders. Fire burned bright in the endless depths of his gaze – and Geralt was powerless to look away.

 _Good_.

He found himself thinking that word with a conviction to match Regis’ own as he reached back up to thread his fingers through the man’s long hair. Because if Regis was to ask him to stop, here, now… he wasn’t sure he would be able to. And he knew – like he had known nothing else before – that if it had been he that had asked that question, then Regis would have given him the exact same answer.

Because this was what they wanted. They had both known that from the very start. Geralt appreciated the precaution, the final test, the last glance back at the bridge before it burned away behind them, but it was meaningless now. They had crossed it a long time ago. They could only watch as the flames licked and curled at the remnants of the path that had led them here. 

A low groan tore from Regis’ throat which was eagerly swallowed by Geralt’s mouth as their lips met once, twice, three times more – each kiss becoming slower and deeper than the last. Geralt regained his earlier rhythm as his hands once again found themselves at work on Regis’ tunic. He tugged and pulled at each button, each thread – unravelling each layer like he wanted to unravel the man before him. 

He felt warm hands come to rest upon his own as Regis helped him.

“Meant what I told you before,” Geralt mouthed against those firm lips, his voice low and parched as if he was a man dying of thirst as each article of clothing slipped free. “You have something you want to tell me, I’ll wait. Not gonna force you.”

“That is a dangerous path you walk on, Geralt,” Regis whispered, a hint of mirth in his breathless words. Geralt tugged the last of the man’s garments free from his shoulders and he threw them to the ground atop his own. He pulled his head back, hungrily roaming his gaze over the expanse of slender, sinewy muscle he was met with.

He smiled.

“Been walking that path for years,” he said simply. He met black eyes once again. “Used to it.”

He knew more than he was letting on with those words, and they both knew it. Emotion passed through Regis’ eyes – an emotion that, like so many others before, was unreadable. But Geralt found that he was at last starting to understand what he so often saw in those strikingly black depths; all he had to do was reach out to know what it was. And reach out he did.

He dropped his hands to Regis’ hips, digging fingers into the thin, hot flesh of his waist. He pulled him forwards, crushing his mouth back against firm, willing lips. He heard a shaken groan and felt an answering echo rise up in his chest in response as long-fingered hands clutched at his shoulders. Regis reacted quickly – too quickly even for Geralt to register at first.

Then he was falling.

Geralt found the floor with a dull thud, his back making contact with the bedroll as Regis reversed their positions and flipped him over. Geralt grinned, tightening his hold on the man’s slender waist as Regis towered over him, seeking the witcher's kiss-swollen lips with abandon. Geralt’s hands moved, almost feverishly running over smooth, lean muscle and digging into each dip and curve of Regis’ back; he tightened his hold in Regis’ hair again, gripping and tugging as he arched up into each touch and each caress that the man so eagerly returned.

He felt Regis’ hands glide over his hips, his chest, his arms; they dug into Geralt's still-clothed thighs and Geralt groaned in approval. Arousal flared through him; he smiled when their hips collided together and pleasure lanced through them both.

He admired the sight he was met with as Regis, groaning softly when Geralt arched up against him once more, pulled himself upright with a noticeable degree of difficulty. His slender body was cast in shadow from the moonlight that glanced off his shoulders. He appeared almost ethereal in this light, like a ghost. Geralt felt his eyes transfixed on that pale chest and thin frame; it would take no small feat of strength to push Geralt down as Regis had done, as effortlessly as he had done – and yet he had done just that. Even the barber-surgeon's body was as deceptive as the man himself.

Adrenaline pulsed. Excitement coursed through him. Geralt felt his heart quicken and his passion grow. He caught Regis gazing at him, watching him with half-lidded black eyes; a soft and knowing smile spread over his pale lips and admiration was clear on his face. He too made no effort to hide the way that he boldly trailed his unblinking gaze over the sight of the witcher underneath him, breathless, panting, aroused, laid bare for him and him alone in a way that Geralt had never been for anyone else before.

Geralt let him. He would let him have it all, if he wanted it. Because once again, Geralt had never before been so certain. And all it took was one look to see that he was not alone in those thoughts. 

Geralt leaned into the hand that came up to rest at his cheek, and the witcher relished the warmth that spread through his cool skin. He pressed a kiss to the inside of Regis’ palm, and he brought his free hand up to trace along the fresh bandages that had been wound along the barber-surgeon’s forearm. He had noticed them earlier, but he had not deigned to comment.

But he wanted to know now.

“Don’t really think you need these anymore,” he murmured, arching a brow as Regis leaned over to the side and began unclasping the buckles of the satchel that he had previously been wearing under his robes. The soft metallic sound of phials being knocked together told him what the man was looking for.

Regis kept his eyes on him even as he pulled forth a small bottle of oil. He chuckled quietly, the sound pleasing to Geralt’s ears.

“Maybe not,” he admitted softly. He sighed. “But I wish to keep them for a while longer. They serve as a reminder.”

“Reminder of what?” Geralt arched his hips, helping Regis to ease his breeches down. He groaned softly when he was pulled free, the pressure against his groin having grown almost unbearable. He smiled when he heard a soft intake of breath from above, and he looked up to see Regis gazing at him with longing. Arousal again pooled deep in his core. Geralt licked his lips.

“Of you.”

Geralt blinked, momentarily taken aback by that quiet admission. He then quickly bit his lip when Regis gently wrapped his hands around him. He grunted softly, bucking lazily into the touch as those dexterous fingers danced around the thick flesh of his eager cock.

“That night make you sentimental?” It took some degree of difficulty to voice the words, but it did not deter either of them; Regis continued pumping his hand in that same maddeningly slow rhythm, and each touch felt like it set Geralt alight. Regis chuckled again, towering over Geralt’s prone body once more as he lowered himself down to brush his lips lightly upon the witcher’s own.

“Perhaps a dash.”

Geralt smirked and silenced any further comment with a heated kiss – one that quickly grew in urgency as he shuddered and twitched under Regis’ expert ministrations. Regis moaned in soft approval, pausing briefly to uncap the phial he had previously retrieved from his possessions. Geralt watched as Regis slicked his fingers with the clear liquid, and the witcher found himself admiring the methodical manner in which Regis did so. Always so precise, even now…

Geralt chuckled and tilted his head back, ignoring the uncomfortable sensation of the wooden floor against his skull in favour of the brief spark of pleasure that shot through him when Regis teased one oil-slick finger against his entrance. Geralt reached out, momentarily stopping the man as he wrapped his hand around Regis’ wrist. He looked up at him, a brow arched and a grin on his lips.

“Been a while,” he grunted, enjoying the sight of the soft tight-lipped smile that pulled at Regis’ mouth in response. Amusement gleamed in those coal-black eyes.

“I promise to be careful.”

Geralt’s chuckle cut off into a low, pleased sigh – Regis had continued, and he made sure to take his time to ease his oiled finger inside Geralt’s warmth. Locking his legs firmly around Regis’ hips, Geralt gave in; he tilted his head to the side and clutched fistfuls of grey hair as Regis trailed his lips to the sides of Geralt’s jaw. Kissing down the length of Geralt’s neck in time with each slow thrust of his finger, Regis eased Geralt open under him, rendering the witcher blissfully pliant through his tender touch.

Adrenaline spiked through Geralt again, but this time of a different kind; the kind that begat a longing for more. He was panting softly, unashamed of the noises being pulled from him. He was sure he muttered something as Regis plunged another finger deep inside, and then slowly one more after that – but in the haze that clouded his mind all Geralt knew was the lips on his neck and the sharp rise and fall of his chest in time with each buck of his hips, his cock twitching impatiently as arousal sang in his blood.

For a moment he closed his eyes and allowed himself to become blind to everything except the sensations and the pleasure; groaning softly, Geralt forced his eyes to open again as he tilted his head downwards to observe Regis moving down his chest. The man left open-mouthed kisses in his wake, and Geralt's skin tingled wherever Regis' firm lips touched. The moonlight reflected Regis' lips as he hovered once more over Geralt’s medallion, and for a moment the witcher thought he caught sight of the man’s teeth. Before he could focus properly, however, the image was gone – replaced by pleasure once again as that firm mouth trailed further down to latch around a dusky coloured nipple.

Geralt soon forgot the thought that had almost chased to the forefront of his mind; he groaned approvingly and smoothed grey locks away from Regis’ pale face. He caught the smile on the man’s lips when Regis lifted his eyes to hold Geralt’s gaze. If the witcher had thought that that fire had burned so alluringly in the man’s eyes before, it was nothing compared to the inferno that he saw there now.

Desire – intense, bold and breathtaking – met him. He looked into Regis’ eyes and could not look away. He saw – indeed he felt it keenly – how the man yearned for him. And how could he not give him what he sought? Geralt was all too aware of the sharp lurch of his heart, the intense spike of pride-laced pleasure that burned through him like wildfire. He ran his free hand down the man’s back, thrusting eagerly upwards into Regis’ body atop his as one particular twist of those long fingers inside his warmth had him bite his lip and hiss.

He barely caught the words Regis breathed in awe; Geralt could only imagine how he must have looked to him in that moment. And then he felt a barren emptiness when those talented fingers swiftly pulled out. He mourned their loss, and his body twitched in displeasure. A curse slipped free from his lips as Geralt’s head fell back roughly against the ground.

He felt another chuckle rumble through Regis’ chest; the man tilted Geralt’s head back up and he brushed an apologetic kiss against his lips. Geralt decided to forgive him then, unable to resist another smirk as he mouthed heavy kisses along Regis’ jaw in return. He felt warm hands wrap around him again, and with another pleasured sigh Geralt watched as Regis stroked him once more – keeping the witcher's attention well and truly diverted as he shifted and lined himself up.

Geralt grinned, making no small show of enjoying the teasing glimpse of the man’s cock – erect, weeping and for his eyes only. He felt smug – he allowed himself to bask in that sensation – and he groaned again when Regis, all too aware of where Geralt’s eyes were so pointedly focused, smiled and pumped his hand yet again along the thick, pulsing length of the witcher’s member.

It was only when Geralt gasped quietly, pleasure blossoming anew through his groin, that Regis then sheathed himself, slowly, tenderly, into the welcoming heat of Geralt’s body. 

Geralt wasn’t entirely sure whose low, breathless moans that filled the space between them belonged to whom in that moment, but what he _was_ certain of – without a doubt – was how Regis made him feel.

He bucked upwards, tightening his thighs around Regis’ waist as he helped meet the slow thrusts that seated his lover further, deeper inside of him. He felt Regis tremble in his hold, his hair brushing Geralt’s shoulders as he bowed his head back against the witcher’s neck. Regis panted, his gasps soon trailing off into soft, tender moans as he dug his hands into Geralt’s hips, eased out, and thrust back in.

Geralt felt bliss. He felt relief. He felt something warm close around his heart and _squeeze_ – pleasure, certainly, but perhaps something more. Something that had only been growing within him over time and something that he was almost hesitant to name; it was dangerous territory to admit to himself what he had known had been there from the very beginning.

Regis had been right. Of course he had. Because Geralt knew that Regis had felt it too. It was what he had warned him about before.

_“That is a dangerous path you walk on, Geralt.”_

Geralt groaned again, pressing his lips to Regis’ shoulder and laying kiss after heated kiss upon his warm skin, revelling in the pleased sounds he coaxed from his lover’s throat.

He knew.

Another low moan next to his ear had him grip Regis tighter, Geralt's body acting almost of its own free will as his hands dug tightly into those slender hips. Geralt pulled Regis more firmly against him, and pressed chest to chest and limb to limb as they were, there was nothing to separate them. Another low, pleased groan met him – followed by short, passionate hitches in breath as they rocked together, skin against skin.

Their lips met once more as their bodies arched and swayed upon the bedroll; heat enveloped them, and all thoughts flew from Geralt’s mind in favour of racing towards the pleasure they both so dearly sought. He felt sharp nails drag along his scarred biceps as Regis brought both of his hands up to cup against either side of Geralt’s neck.

Regis held Geralt under him, and Geralt drowned in those feverish kisses as mouths danced back and forth in time with each deep grind of their hips. If he could lose himself here, he would gladly do so. If even this night was all they could have, he would have it with no regrets.

His hands glided down the curve of Regis’ spine, eventually coming to a rest upon his lower back; Geralt splayed his fingers, gripping and holding his lover even closer – not wanting to feel anything else but him. Another thrust had him hiss through his teeth, groaning unashamedly and freely. Regis smiled against his lips, whispering something that Geralt did not fully catch – but he guessed at the meaning.

In answer he leant back up into that firm, kiss-swollen mouth, and panting softly Geralt chuckled and rolled them both over, groaning lowly as the action sent another sharp stab of pleasure rocketing through his flesh and through his blood. Regis moaned lowly in approval, gazing up at Geralt now as the witcher leaned over him. His cat eyes blazed in the moonlight that filtered over his muscled form.

Geralt smiled as he looked down, resuming the steady rhythm that Regis had set as he sank back down onto his lover’s cock. He saw the desire, the longing, and the glassy-eyed pleasure that glazed over those obsidian black eyes as Regis gazed up at him, his hands outstretched to clutch desperately at Geralt's hips. Geralt bowed his head, panting hotly against Regis’ heaving chest. He heard the uneven melody that too-slow heartbeat sang in his ears and he knew that he had lost himself at last. 

He would not regret this – not now, not ever. 

He heard his name whispered by his ear, and hot lips pressed a kiss to his sweat-slicked brow. Geralt managed another chuckle, though it came out hoarse, faint. He drove his hips down once again onto the body underneath him, grinding into that ecstasy that flooded them both as he chased it again and again. A strangled gasp fell from Regis’ throat and the man’s hands rose to Geralt’s back. Regis' sharp nails dug deep into the witcher's scarred flesh and Geralt grit his teeth, a low moan rumbling from his chest as pleasure coursed through him – white-hot and numbing.

His breath caught in his throat. He would not last like this. He could not. 

“Don’t stop,” he panted, kissing each inch of pale flesh he could reach as he mapped Regis’ chest with his searching mouth. His cock pulsed and ached between them as they moved. He cussed, lifting his head to press his brow to Regis’ own, squeezing his eyes shut as he did. 

“I don’t want to,” Regis whispered – his tone near desperate as he groaned deeply into Geralt’s mouth as their kisses grew in equal desperation. He held Geralt tighter to him and thrust deeper, slower, wanting so madly to make it last. But Regis knew as well as Geralt did that he was close; they both were.

Geralt felt the tell-tale twitch of his lover’s cock inside his warmth and he tightened his hold on the man beneath him, dropping his hands to Regis’ waist. He held on, guided him, eased him further into that deliriously slow pace; he opened his eyes and gazed, captivated, at the bliss on his lover’s face as Regis bucked his hips sharply upwards, Geralt cussing once more as he felt his release swiftly approach. 

He wanted to warn him, to somehow give voice to the thoughts in his head, but one more look into those eyes told him it was needless – Regis nodded, capturing Geralt’s lips in one last breath-stealing kiss as they rocked gently together until Geralt, surrendering, spilled and fell forwards, spent, into Regis’ waiting arms.

Regis moaned, pleased, and it did not take long until he followed; in the dull haze of his mind, Geralt focused on the soft sounds that he drew from Regis’ throat – those long hands tightened further against Geralt’s back, clinging desperately to him as Regis gave one final thrust and rode out the waves of climax that at last swept in and claimed him whole.

Geralt sighed softly, feeling the warmth spread through him and savouring it as he ran a hand down Regis’ jaw; he waited until his lover had grown still, chest rising and falling sharply in time with his laboured breaths before Geralt slowly leant back and eased himself off.

He bit his lip and ran a hand over his sweaty brow, lazily relishing the sight of his lover’s cock as it left him. He once again mourned the emptiness that remained, but he was far too sated to think on the loss further, especially when his eyes returned to the dishevelled form of the man below him, Regis watching him with eyes as black as night – desire and longing still so prominent in his penetrating gaze.

He looked as if he was about to say something; his lips parted but whatever words he had been meaning to speak soon died on his tongue. Geralt smiled thinly – he could guess only too well what Regis had wanted to say. He had almost said it himself – had been on the verge of saying it in fact – but he knew that some things were better left to fade away into the darkness. This was one of those very things. If either of them admitted it now…

Well. It would be easier in the long run for them both if they did not.

It was cruel, perhaps, but necessary. So for now, it would be better to desire. To desire and lust and hope for the something that they could one day say openly without fear of that weight hanging around their shoulders.

But until that day arrived, they would savour each moment that fate deigned to give them. They could do that much at the very least.

Geralt turned his head, forcing himself to look away as he searched for something to clean themselves up with. He had noticed a thin bundle of linen rags earlier. Casting his gaze upon the dusty floor, he did not notice that Regis had moved at first until he heard the man’s soft voice.

“Geralt…”

Geralt looked back at him, seeing that Regis had the rags in hand. A small smile touched the man's reddened lips; amusement once more gleamed in his eyes. Geralt decided he liked that look. He chuckled, taking the cloth and easing carefully off of the barber-surgeon as he pressed the rags to their chests. He felt lips trace the shell of his ear, and he turned to meet his lover’s mouth once more.

There was something different in this kiss; in the post-coital haze it was light, lazy. Just as they sat there feeling the waves of bliss slowly recede, their kiss too grounded them back to reality. The desire tasted the same as before, however – it was likely that that would not change. Not now. Perhaps not ever.

With regret Geralt eventually pulled away, though not entirely. He threw the cloth back to the ground, exhaling slowly as he lifted his eyes back to Regis’ pale face. He saw the question in those black eyes – almost a hesitancy.

Where did they go now, from here? What would they do?

He did not know. He could not know. But he was certain about one thing.

“Regis,” Geralt murmured, glancing first at the windows and catching sight of the moon outside as its light illuminated the camp and the hut they both lay in. He then turned back to the man beside him, unashamed in how he gripped his arm and held him in place. “Stay with me.”

His only answer was a nod and a tender smile – and it was the only answer that he needed.

*****

He barely recognised her.

The young girl gleamed from head to toe, covered in emeralds, rubies and all other manner of colourful stones. Even her stance was different now – he saw it in the line of her shoulders and her squared jaw as she stood there, surrounded by other young boys and girls whose faces held such a joyous hatred in them that they surely could not even be considered human. He recognised their faces; he had seen them before in these visions. But not like this.

She was frail, too thin, too small, and that was all that served as a reminder of who she used to be as she danced and yelled, foreign laughter tearing from her throat as she swayed upon the tabletop. Her sword gleamed in the light of the fires as it hung loosely by her waist. Another girl danced with her – elven, dark haired and violent – a manic glee in her eyes as music pulsed through the air around them in time with their frenzied steps.

He heard the sounds of fighting, of screaming and bellowing as villagers found themselves caught in the middle between the dance and the brawling; yet the two girls remained, lost to the beat as the song played on. _Falka_ , the she-elf called her. 

He felt a coldness in his chest, like a shard of ice. He knew what he would see if she turned her head, if he saw her eyes now. He knew and was afraid, because he feared what she would become.

 _Ciri,_ he wanted to say, to yell out her name and somehow bring her back to him. But he couldn’t. It was a dream. Just a dream.

He woke up to feel his heart pounding.

For a while all he could hear was the silence, broken only by his faint gasps for breath. The air was still and cool against his skin, and he realised belatedly that at some point he had broken out into a cold sweat.

Geralt pressed his hands to his face. He breathed in slowly, then exhaled. He tried it twice more just to be certain that he was calm. When he was satisfied, he sat upright and hunched over, gazing at the covers of the bedroll that had slipped free from his chest. 

In the night he could hear the lonely howl of the wolves on the wind. He heard a child crying off in the near distance. He heard the whispers of the refugees who could not sleep, and he heard the faint mesmerising lapping of the river’s waves against the banks.

All of it was far better than the sounds of that music, the sounds of the screams and the laughter.

But one sound yet remained, and that served to calm him the most. He focused on the slow – too slow – heartbeat beside him. It was steady, constant. It made it easier to focus when he listened, and he did so for some time. He felt the warmth, too, of that body beside his, just as he could now feel that intimate gaze upon him – questioning, concerned. Yet Regis remained silent and Geralt was grateful. He exhaled slowly again and began to stand.

The warmth fell away from him quickly as he strode over to the window, uncaring for his nakedness as he gazed out across the Chotla. The camp looked near deserted at this hour, the only souls wandering from their beds being the guards or those few like he for whom sleep had not come easily. The fires had long been put out and the land was blanketed in darkness.

The moon hung low in the sky, its light partially hidden by the clouds, and by Geralt's estimation it would be dawn within the hour. 

He closed his eyes and breathed deeply again. He forced the visions from his mind. It had not been a nightmare, true, but he had had these dreams so often now that it was becoming hard to tell the difference.

Another beat of silence passed. Then Geralt finally spoke.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you,” he murmured, his voice sounding hoarse from lack of use. He heard the sound of rustling as the rest of the covers fell away from his lover’s body.

“There’s no need to apologise,” Regis answered softly. He paused, and Geralt sensed hesitancy in that brief moment. “What did you see?”

Geralt sighed. He wished he knew.

“Ciri.” Her name sounded bitter coming from his lips. “She was... different.”

Another beat of silence passed between them. The wolves howled once more in the distance.

“Different?” Regis echoed, and Geralt pulled away from the window to look at him. He saw the furrow of the man’s brow, his grey hair casting his face half in shadow. “What do you mean?”

Geralt continued to look at him, finding Regis a far more favourable distraction than the despair of the world outside. It was getting easier to think now. He was reminded of a time when he had first confided to this man about his nightmares and visions; just like that first time, Regis did not ask the questions that Geralt could not answer. He was patient, and he listened attentively – something that Geralt realised made it all the easier.

So again, just like that first time, he told him.

“She was in a village. Dressed like a bandit, dancing and laughing while music played and fights broke out all around her.” He frowned, speaking each word with effort. “She didn’t care. A girl was with her. An elf. I’ve seen my share of cruelty, Regis, but… what I saw in her eyes couldn't even compete with that.” 

He ran a hand through his loose hair, pushing errant strands from his brow.

“She called Ciri ‘Falka’.”

At this Regis’ expression darkened. He, like many others, knew the tale of Bloody Falka – the infamous rebel princess who waged war upon the north and was subsequently burned at the stake. Her name, now a curse, had become synonymous with all that was evil. Geralt saw understanding in Regis’ black eyes; he knew now why Geralt had awoken in such a state of unease.

Regis did not comment.

Geralt glanced back towards the window again.

“I’m worried. About her.”

“You have every right to be.”

Geralt nodded, and then loosely shook his head, as if suddenly changing his mind.

“Then there’s the village.” He pulled away from the window, and he felt Regis’ eyes on him all the while as he paced back and forth like a caged beast. He would have laughed at the comparison if he was in any other state of mind – nothing felt more accurate in that moment. “It could be anywhere. And where are we? Sitting in the middle of a shit-stained refugee camp with Emhyr’s armies on one side and the entire fucking North on the other.”

He stopped pacing and he felt his jaw clench. He knew the expression on his face was an ugly one. When he looked back at Regis he felt like he was pleading.

“We’re running in circles. These… dreams, nightmares… they’re always tied to Ciri. Always. She’s in danger, Regis. But where do I go? Where do I find her?” He resumed pacing once more. “All I have to go on is a rumour at best, and a wild fantasy at worst. I want _facts_. And I’m not even allowed _that.”_

This time when he paused, he stopped for good.

“ _Dammit._ I can’t even be sure these visions are real! But they feel like it. That’s what worries me most.” 

He was tired. Tired of all of this. He closed his eyes and wished for peace.

_I’m getting too old for this._

Another minute of quiet passed. Geralt smiled thinly.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, still not opening his eyes. “No words of wisdom for me?”

When he finally met Regis’ gaze he saw the pained look in those black eyes – apologetic and anguished. Geralt immediately regretted his words.

“No, Geralt,” Regis answered quietly, and Geralt hated the helplessness he saw in the man’s face. “Not this time. Not for this.”

“Pity,” the witcher muttered. “Could have used some.”

The expression on Regis’ face showed that if it had been remotely in his power, he would have done so. But he could not, and Geralt knew that. It was wrong to ask it of him. Geralt walked back to him, suddenly feeling the need to escape the chill that had crept into his skin and into his very blood.

He exhaled softly when he sat back on their makeshift bed and leaned up against the roughly hewn edges of wood that comprised the hut’s walls. The pain was good, he thought, as he leaned further into the uncomfortable surface against his spine. He could deal with that. He understood it. Beside him Regis’ body was warm like a furnace. He could deal with that, too. He wanted to. Thus he was powerless to stop the faint groan that left him when he felt long hands reach up to brush loose hair past his cheek – Regis’ touch was firm. Real.

He needed that now more than ever.

“What will you do?”

Geralt considered the question. _Action._ He needed to act.

“She could be anywhere,” he said again. “Anywhere in the world. But I’d rather chase a rumour than a fairy tale. I don’t… _can’t_ trust in visions or dreams. We’ll keep going east.” He opened his eyes and narrowed them. “You said something about Caed Dhu a while back…”

Regis nodded, and Geralt turned now to look at him properly. He saw careful consideration on the man’s features. His hand stopped where it had previously been poised by Geralt’s jaw.

“I did,” Regis acknowledged. “And given how precious little we have to go on, I see none as better equipped to help us than the druids and their circle. You know as well as I that they have powerful seers amongst them.” He sighed. “It seems the best option.”

“Right.” Geralt nodded once. “Then that’s what we’ll do.” Regis looked as if he was set to add something else – to remind Geralt of his earlier reservations about the druids, perhaps – but Geralt beat him to it. “I need something to latch onto. Anything.”

Then, quietly, more to himself than to the man beside him: “I can’t keep wandering this path forever.”

The silence that followed was not tense, but nor was it an easy one. But Regis understood. Geralt felt that as instinctively as he felt his warmth beside him.

He gave no resistance when long fingers tucked themselves back under his chin and his face was turned to meet firm lips in one slow, reassuring kiss. It invigorated him somewhat; it set flame to the spark inside him that had been there for too long. He almost dared to hope.

Another groan rumbled deep in his chest, and reaching out he was quick to pull his lover close, needing to feel more than just that sole kiss. Regis allowed it, and he glided his fingers down Geralt’s bared chest and traced Geralt's marred flesh as if to memorise each and every touch until they slowly parted.

Geralt sighed, pressing his brow to Regis’ own. He tightened his hold on him, and Regis did the same in turn. All thoughts of sleep lay forgotten. Not that Geralt could have managed or wanted to continue his rest after that rude awakening – but that was neither here nor there.

By the look in Regis’ eyes it was clear that he too had reached that very same conclusion.

“Geralt…”

“Regis.” The witcher silenced him; he crushed his lips upon his, and Regis responded with an ardour that stirred all that was desperate and hungry in Geralt’s blood. Panting into that breath-stealing kiss, Geralt chased his mouth again and again with equal fervour. “Please… just need to forget.”

He dipped his head to the arch of his lover’s neck, pressing ravenous kiss after ravenous kiss to Regis' pale flesh. He heard the stifled groan that spilled free from Regis’ lips and he smiled. Adrenaline pulsed. Desire flared. This was what he needed now, once again, far more than anything else.

He gripped slender hips and rolled him over, meeting Regis’ lips halfway as they sank back to the ground beneath them. He fell into warm limbs and once again chased each touch, each caress like a man starved. 

And, once again, thanks to Regis he forgot.


	10. Chapter 10

Dawn crept slowly upon the Chotla, and the fugitives awoke even more slowly. It was well past the morning’s third hour when the peasants, their eyes heavy from fatigue and lack of sleep, forced themselves to go about their day. Even the guards spared no one any more notice than they had the night before, and as far as Geralt was concerned, that suited him just fine.

The witcher was not sorry to leave the hut behind as he and Regis gathered their belongings and left its dilapidated ruins. They walked in companionable silence as they navigated their way towards the river, eager to clean themselves fully in preparations for the day ahead.

The Yaruga’s banks were unguarded and almost deserted at this late morning hour, and a mist had once again rolled through when they approached. There were only a small gathering of peasants nearby wanting to refresh themselves by the water's edge, and Geralt ignored the pointing hands and wary whispers thrown back and forth behind him as he stripped down to his waist and dunked his head beneath the surface. He knew how he must have looked – any man covered head to toe in scars as he was was sure to raise more than a few eyebrows. He had learned to ignore it.

The water was cold. He relished it as it cleared his mind and defogged his thoughts. 

When he eventually resurfaced he felt the sun’s warmth on his back, and he realised that he had been there for longer than he had originally planned. He sighed, scrubbing the last of the dirt from his skin and hair before wading back to the shoreline.

A dark figure entered his field of vision, and he smiled when he saw Regis waiting for him, already dressed and with Geralt’s swords in hand as he held them out to him.

“Thanks.” Geralt took his weapons, and Regis answered with a smile as he stepped back. The witcher towelled himself down and studied the damp grey locks that had been smoothed back from Regis’ pale face – the only remaining indicator that he had taken advantage of the cool water, too, when he had bathed some few feet away from Geralt. He looked as refreshed as Geralt himself felt, and the witcher was glad for that.

Their eyes met when Geralt had dried and redressed, and he saw satisfaction in Regis’ gaze. The man appeared in good spirits; in fact he looked at Geralt with such relaxed composure in both his stance and his eyes that the witcher was almost certain the man’s lips would threaten to split in two if he smiled any wider. A fleeting desire passed through Geralt then; he wondered what it would be like if Regis smiled properly for once. He pondered the thought for a moment longer and then chuckled, fastening the belts of his swords’ harness around his chest. He felt their familiar weight and he rolled his shoulders.

“Someone’s in a good mood.”

“Is there a reason why I shouldn’t be?” Regis asked, mirth twinkling in his dark eyes. “The morning is calm and the people here are even more so. It is good to have that small degree of certainty in these uncertain times.”

Geralt nodded. Regis fell into step beside him as they weaved their way back through the crowds that had steadily grown over the course of their time spent outside. Geralt smelled the familiar scent of herbs and spices and he breathed it in deeply.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

Regis’ smile softened at that to be replaced with one that was almost private in nature; he cast a quick glance at the witcher beside him and Geralt felt the intimacy in that look.

“Come now, Geralt. I hardly think I need voice the reasons for and why when we’ve already said and done all that was needed.” Regis trailed off and looked away. A thoughtful look crossed his face. “I feel… relieved.”

“Just that?” Geralt was curious now, though he knew well what Regis was referring to. Regis knew that he did, too. That was immediately apparent by the single nod the man gave, and the smile that pulled slyly at his lips once more.

“Much more than that. But for now ‘relieved’ shall suffice, yes.”

Geralt chuckled quietly again. He knew the feeling. He was starting to know it all too well. His thoughts flew back to the night before – even now, when the new day had dawned and they would have to return to the here and now and the dangers of their journey, he too was relieved that those thoughts remained unchanged. He felt the pleasant remnants of a dull ache in his lower body and he smiled at the memory of how that ache had gotten there.

There was no regret. None.

Regis was right. There was no need to talk anymore about it when they both knew intimately well where this now left them, which again suited Geralt just fine. Everything had become a little easier, after all.

They lapsed back into their companionable silence and as they walked Geralt wondered about the journey ahead; the others would need to be told about Caed Dhu, of course. But this posed another problem: should he mention the dream? He knew that Dandelion would be dismissive – he had been in the past. Geralt ordinarily would have agreed with him, but not this time. Milva, perhaps, would show some interest but would ultimately cast it off in favour of action, just as Geralt himself was doing.

The thought almost comforted him, though he was just set to wonder how best to explain himself to the others when he heard Regis speak up once again beside him.

“You seem to be faring better, yourself. I’m glad.”

Geralt shrugged.

“What can I say? Taking a dip in an ice cold river does wonders for the mind. Feel ten years younger already. Can’t feel my feet, though.” 

Regis laughed – it came out as a soft huff of breath, but it was still unexpected and served to amuse Geralt regardless. He returned the smile he was again awarded with, and they continued on. 

They soon found the others gathered around one of the remaining campfires from the night before. They looked as if they were keeping an eye out for something – or someone – and Geralt found out just what it was when Zoltan’s eyes honed in on his white hair and twin swords and he elbowed Dandelion in the ribs.

“There you are!” the dwarf loudly announced as the witcher and barber-surgeon approached. Dandelion sighed in visible relief and Percival merely offered a lazy wave. “Been lookin’ for ye both all morning!”

“Sorry about that,” Geralt said as he came to a stop. “See you’re all ready to go.”

“What took you two so long?” Dandelion asked, looking visibly annoyed as he did. He was agitated and had not had much sleep either, that was clear to see; Geralt knew that it was most likely largely due to their immediate surroundings. Dandelion had always preferred a life of considerable luxury.

Geralt ran his eyes over those of his friends gathered – they were all there except for one. He ignored Dandelion’s question.

“Where’s Milva?”

“Went to see about getting some more feed for the horses ‘fore we leave. A merchant’s set up his shop by the middle of the camp,” Zoltan said. A dark look flickered across his face. “He was charging a whole thaler for a measure of oats. The lass didn’t take too well to that and stormed off. Haven’t seen her since.”

Geralt arched his brows.

 _“How_ much?”

“It would seem that desperate times call for exceedingly desperate measures,” Regis murmured solemnly, and Zoltan nodded his head.

“Aye. That’s just the start of it, though. Percival here went scouting for food a while ago. Tell ‘em what you told us.”

Percival grunted.

“Flour and barley groats are a crown a pound and a bowl of soup’s two nobles. I managed to get a small discount on some salted meats and a refill of our water skins, but even then it cost near an arm and a leg for how small the travel bags are.”

Geralt whistled lowly; it was a good thing that they still had supplies left to last them for another couple of weeks at best.

“Daylight robbery,” Zoltan sighed. “Sadly it’s to be expected in a place like this.”

A heavy silence fell upon the group. They glanced at one another, and it was clear by the looks in their eyes that they hoped to be free of this camp soon enough.

They heard footsteps and they turned to see Milva approaching.

“Ah, there she is!” Zoltan was visibly glad for the opportunity to change the subject; he waved her over. Milva did not reply but instead offered a curt nod to both Geralt and Regis when she saw them, and then she loosed a heavy sigh as she sat down on the ground. She looked exhausted. Geralt pitied her.

“Are you men all ready to go yet?” she finally asked at length, casting each and every one of them an impatient glare. “The horses have some extra feed in their bellies, but I don’t have any more coin to spare. The yokels robbed me of my last silver.”

Zoltan visibly winced, and even Dandelion and Percival looked unsettled.

“Geralt?” Dandelion asked timidly as he glanced at the witcher. “We were waiting for you to get here so we could ask you about our next step. Do you really want to keep heading east?”

Geralt sighed. He knew that the sooner he told them about their change in plans, the better, and now that the opportunity had presented itself it would be foolish if he did not take it. He cast a quick glance back at Regis who returned the look before Geralt cleared his throat and prepared to answer.

He did not get very far; he was interrupted before he could so much as open his mouth.

“By the by, Geralt, I think this’d be as good a time as any to tell ye…” Zoltan shifted where he sat, and the dwarf almost looked sheepish as he glanced first at Percival and then back at the witcher again. “It won’t be long until ol’ Munro Bruys and the lads show up. You see, we’d arranged to meet up back here before we parted ways at Fen Carn – it’s been a pleasure travelling alongside you, it has, but…”

Geralt nodded.

“I get it. Different journey, different road.”

Zoltan nodded grimly.

“Quite different.” He exhaled softly. “I’m pleased you’re not mad at us.”

“Why would I be?” Geralt asked. He then took the opportunity to look around at the rest of the group; Dandelion looked visibly put out at Zoltan announcing his and Percival’s imminent departure, and Milva merely offered a shrug and remained silent. Regis smiled a thin smile, understanding as always. “Not forcing you to stay with me. Not forcing any of you.”

“Geralt, please, we’ve had this conversation before—”

Geralt raised a hand to silence Dandelion before he could continue.

“Do what you want.” He did not say any more than that, but the meaning was clear. If anyone else wished to get up, to walk away right now, he would let them. He would let them and he would know that they would save themselves from the darkness that surely lay ahead – his path was not a happy one. Blood followed him wherever he walked.

No one moved. Geralt sighed.

_So be it._

“We’ll wait around a bit longer until they get here,” Zoltan continued slowly, eyeing the others. He no doubt sensed the tension that had built up between them all following Geralt’s words.

The witcher nodded. Everyone relaxed. The moment remained short-lived, however – Geralt heard the footsteps first, and smelled the stench of sweat and alcohol shortly after. He narrowed his eyes; a group, peasants most likely, no more than six of them, were striding quickly in their direction. The sound of curses and swearing confirmed his fears as he turned around to find a familiar throng of men honing in on their company from across the growing crowds of people.

“What’s going on?” Dandelion asked, frowning. He lifted his head and visibly deflated once more when he discovered the source of the sudden commotion in the camp. “Not again…”

Milva groaned softly and burrowed her head into her arms; she had caught sight of them, too. Regis moved beside the witcher, standing next to him as he joined Geralt in watching the group of men as they pushed their way impatiently towards them.

“I see our enterprising young vampire hunters have decided to pay us one more visit,” he said softly. 

Geralt nodded. He recalled their warnings from the previous night and had been expecting them since they had left the hut that morning. It was just unfortunate that they had decided to show themselves now, of all times.

“Figured as much. They didn’t seem too intent on letting us go after yesterday.” He smiled grimly. “I’ve been waiting to meet this venerable priest of theirs.”

If Regis was going to make further comment he did not get the chance to. They had arrived.

“Oi! You lot!” The man with the mole pointed a dirt-stained hand at them. He near spat with fury. “Remember us?”

“How could we not?” Dandelion muttered in an undertone. Geralt shot him a look.

“We remember,” Geralt intoned calmly. He sized the men up with a glance. “You can tell your priest we’re still here. Said you were going to take us to him.” 

“Aye an’ we will, don’t you worry ‘bout that,” the man spat again. He glowered at them; when he saw Milva, his scowl turned hideous. “Sent us to get you, he did, but first thing’s first we want to have a chat with your lass.”

“Why? Do you want a round two?” Milva arched a brow, her voice cold like steel as she stood up and touched her hand warningly to her bow. The peasants visibly faltered and Geralt reached out a hand to hold her back.

“Calm down,” he muttered. She narrowed her eyes but said nothing.

“It’s about Cloggy,” the peasant hissed. His friends nodded and exchanged glances. The man pointed his finger directly at the archer. “The man whose head your she-wolf split open. We was gonna marry him off, see, and now we can’t!”

“Why can’t you?” Zoltan asked. Mole-Face rounded on him.

“Because he lay there dazed, all night long, and even now he still can’t tell day from night! He don’t talk, don’t eat – he don’t do nothing ‘cept stare at you with wide glassy eyes! How’re we supposed to send him off to his missus now?!”

Milva scoffed bitterly – fire was in her eyes and Geralt stepped in front of her, hoping that by doing so he could waylay any further conflict. The sooner they could leave this camp, the better, and he would rather they did so peacefully.

“We’ve already apologised,” he said slowly. Clearly. “If your friend was getting married, maybe he should’ve watched his words in the presence of a lady. Might’ve been good practice for him.”

A stunned silence fell upon both parties, and Geralt continued to calmly stare the peasants down as they gazed at him, mouths quavering in open-mouthed shock. He felt a smirk pull at his lips.

“Your friend will recover in time,” Regis said, stepping forwards once more and diverting the men’s attention upon himself. He smiled thinly. “If you remain worried for his wellbeing, then I shall see to his wounds once more. It’s no trouble, gentlemen. But I must ask that first and foremost, you remain civil.” He extended a hand to indicate the slowly gathering crowds that their yelling had drawn forth around them. “It really would be better if you do. I daresay you are not helping him in this state.” 

The men slowly gazed first at the crowds, then at Regis, and then finally back to each other.

Geralt waited with bated breath; he watched Regis closely as the man continued to level those men with a steady, unwavering gaze. The tension had grown heavy in the air around them – and it was only when the peasants had finally mumbled in the affirmative and spared grudging glares in Milva’s direction that the witcher then loosened the breath that he had been holding.

It seemed that he had not been the only one; Milva exhaled softly by his shoulder, and Geralt noted both Zoltan and Dandelion taking two small steps back. Regis, no doubt aware of Geralt’s gaze upon him, cast the witcher a quick glance out of the corner of his eye; understanding passed between them in that moment, and Geralt nodded imperceptibly.

Regis had bought him some time. He was grateful. 

“We’ve already apologised,” Geralt said again as he glanced back at them. “Where’s your priest? The sooner we talk things over with him, the sooner we can pretend this never happened and we’ll be on our way.”

“A-aye… aye, masters…” Mole-Face looked back at his friends. “The sooner you leave us we can get back to our lives, that’s true. We’re peaceful, decent folk here. We don’t want no trouble from outsiders.”

“Yokels,” Milva hissed under her breath.

“He be waitin’ for you near the maple tree, with the elder, Hector Laabs,” Mole-Face continued, either having not heard Milva or choosing not to add further comment. He jerked his thumb behind him in the direction of the centre of the camp. The crowd that had since been gathering around them, intrigued by the commotion, seemed to lose interest and had begun to head off the same way. “They’re sitting in judgement on a witch.”

“A witch?” Dandelion echoed. The man nodded.

“Nabbed her last night, the priest did. Caught her in league with the vampire! She’ll be burned at the stake today, ain’t no doubting that!”

“A witch in league with this elusive vampire,” Regis murmured, his brows raised. He glanced back at Geralt. “This grows more intriguing by the minute.”

“Exceptionally,” Geralt said, looking at the peasants.

“They’d make for good witchers,” Dandelion said, smiling. He was unable to resist a huff of laughter. The peasants shot him a glare that made the poet instantly desist.

“Joke you not, master,” Mole-Face murmured. “Our priest knows his work, and he’s more trustworthy than a witcher.” He turned his eyes to Geralt. “You don’t know our ways. You don’t understand our struggles. You’re an outsider here and we have no need for you.”

“Gathered that,” Geralt nodded. “But I’m curious about one thing – yesterday when we met you, you were determined as hell to find that vampire. Now you almost don’t give a damn. Mind telling me what this is about?”

“It’s quite simple,” Mole-Face answered, looking at Geralt as if he had suddenly grown two heads, “everyone knows that the witch is half the problem – she but only need point out the vampire’s victim, and then she blinds everyone’s eyes so they don’t see nothing when the beast attacks!”

“And by capturing the whore and burning her on that stake, the vampire is left to lick his wounds like a damn dog! He’s harmless now! The priest will find him easily – he’ll be driven out into the open!” the youngest of the peasants with the pockmarked face added. He had been silent until now, but it appeared that he could no longer rein his excitement in. Geralt felt that if the kid had tried to keep quiet any longer, he would have been reduced to a slavering froth. 

He exhaled slowly. He suddenly felt his age – he was indeed getting far too old for this.

“Right. Hurry up and take us to the priest. I feel like I’ll grow an ulcer the more I listen to this.”

He ignored the narrow eyed glares the peasants threw his way. He did not care any longer. He wanted nothing more than to leave this place.

Thankfully no one made any further comment, and Mole-Face indicated for the group to follow him. They did so, Geralt’s companions gathering the last of their belongings and weapons as they fell into step behind the witcher. The walk was a slow one, and their progress was severely hampered by the crowds that had grown so thick now that it was almost impossible to keep track of one another in the throng of bodies.

But it allowed them enough time to think and plan. And thanks to the cacophony of voices, no one managed to hear them.

“I don’t like this, Geralt,” Regis murmured beside him as he matched Geralt’s pace with ease. “Something is wrong here. It doesn’t take the threat of war to see that only the innocent burn upon the pyre.”

“I know,” Geralt answered grimly. “Seen more than my fair share of that in the past.”

Regis nodded faintly; pain echoed cold and clear in his black eyes.

“It’s rather droll, isn’t it? Fear is an excellent motivator – fear and an inbred unwillingness to accept what it is we do not understand.” His words carried a bitterness to them that cut deep through to Geralt’s core; he recognised that tone, recognised it well. Regis was speaking from experience. 

Geralt, too, could say the same. In fact he often had.

“Nothing we can do about it when that happens,” he said. “World’s gone to shit and back, don’t take it so personally. As long as at least one person knows the difference that’s something worth holding onto.”

Regis looked at him and was silent for a long moment. His eyes calmly met Geralt's own, and he smiled knowingly.

“Perhaps it is.”

Geralt did not reply that time, but the ghost of a grin touched his lips.

As they neared the maple tree that had been outlined to them earlier, the crowd growing louder with each step closer they took, he began to take note of the camp exits that they passed. The eastern gate, close to the Yaruga’s edge, was the most direct route and the one that they would indeed need to take. Fortunately, thanks to the excitement and the gathering, it was also unguarded. No one dared to venture beyond the eastern walls where so much death and destruction already lay with Nilfgaard’s continued advance. 

_Perfect._

Small mercies did exist, it seemed.

“Milva, are the horses saddled and ready to go?” he asked the archer as she pushed her way past two middle-aged men. She ignored their angered cries as they rounded on her.

“That they are,” she said with steel in her voice, though she eyed him questioningly. “But your Nilfgaardian friend still hasn’t come back.”

“I know.” Even if Cahir’s continued absence indicated that an immediate attack was not imminent, Geralt’s dream showed that they could afford no time to waste after they met with the priest. That was the sole thing he trusted from his vision. “Be prepared to leave. Soon. He’ll have to catch up on his own.”

If there was anything Cahir had proven, after all, it was that he was adept at doing just that.

“What’s this about?” Milva asked. It was clear that she suspected something, though she looked relieved at the prospect of finally moving on. He did not blame her. 

“I’ll explain later.”

He barely got a nod out of her before their group drew to a halt, the peasants leading them having stopped behind the wall of people standing around a raised dais under the maple leaves. They gestured to a man dressed in long black robes who had only now begun to climb the stairs. Yet it wasn’t the robes which made the man stand so easily out from the crowds that gathered before him, chanting, praying and wailing – he was skeletal, barely a muscle on him; a silver emblem in the visage of a holy symbol swung from his neck, and his face, though caked in dirt and lined with years of old age, spoke tales of a man who had endured relatively little hardship in his life. His smile was cruel.

Geralt knew all he needed to know in that one instant.

“That be him,” Mole-Face said with a smug smile. “They’ve already begun the trial.” 

“We’ll wait,” Geralt muttered. He eyed an elderly man beside him who was watching the priest with awe. “Do you know anything about this witch? Was she really practicing black magic?”

The man started as if he had been struck from behind; he whipped his head around and gaped at the witcher with shock. He saw the twin swords upon his back and wavered when he gazed into Geralt's slitted eyes.

“I-I don’t rightly know, master,” he stammered. “She’s a stranger, she is – only arrived here the other week. She d-don’t say nothing… just plays with the little ‘uns like she were a child herself…” he gulped, then quickly averted his eyes back to the priest. “But everyone says she were the one to help the vampire, aid him when he killed our women. An’ truth be told… she don’t seem quite right in the head, either.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes, but the man became silent. He would say no more.

“Geralt,” Regis warned quietly beside him, and the witcher nodded. He saw. He knew.

A hush had descended upon the crowds. So silent had it suddenly become that it weighed heavily in the air. A man, broad-shouldered and large, pushed a woman up the stairwell towards the dais and the priest, who extended his hand towards her accusingly.

She could not have been any older than sixteen. Her dark hair hung matted and limp around her bony shoulders. Her skin was a sickly pallor; so pale was she in complexion that she could very well have passed for a wraith, and her dress hung loosely from her malnourished frame. Geralt felt his jaw clench and his fingers curl into fists, but he remained quiet. The woman struggled faintly in her captor’s grasp, and her head lolled back onto his chest.

Her eyes rolled up and strangled sounds – giddy laughter and a half-swallowed cry of fear – escaped her. Something was wrong here, that much was certain. Geralt wasn’t convinced that it had anything to do with their so-called vampire, either.

“That’s their witch?” Zoltan asked quietly. Geralt ignored him. He watched the priest.

“Behold, the vile witch who has cursed our peaceful village!” The priest’s voice carried far and wide across the silent camp. There was power in his raspy words; he was a man used to getting what he wanted, and of exerting dominance over those lesser than him. Geralt knew his type all too well.

With a wave of his dirt-caked hand, the priest gestured to the hulk of a man leading the woman onto the dais. He nodded, grunting as he pulled her roughly against him and forced the girl to the rack of a wagon that had, too, been precariously balanced atop the platform’s surface. She uttered not a word as her hands and legs were tightly bound – not even when the rope cut so sharply into her skin that it rubbed it raw.

She sniffled, gulped, and hung her head. Her shoulders trembled with her eerie laughter.

“How easy it is to hold trial over someone incapable of defending themselves. If I didn't know any better, I’d say that she’s been given a heady dose of narcotics,” Regis muttered, his tone cold. Geralt looked at him. He saw anger there in the man’s black eyes, carefully veiled for all except the witcher to see. “So desperate were they to prove their claims that witchcraft was at fault that they forced that vile concoction down the poor woman’s throat. There is no monster here other than hatred and fear – and everything else that is base, cruel and ugly in nature.”

“Geralt, maybe we should help her?” Dandelion urged insistently, having overheard Regis’ whispered words. Geralt nodded.

“We will.”

He felt more than one pair of eyes on him, but in that moment there was only one pair that mattered. He felt Regis watch him a while longer, silently, until the priest spread his hands to the heavens above.

“Look at this godless heathen! See how she writhes? See how she laughs! She has partaken of her devilish herbs and seeks to curse us all with her dying breath!”

The crowd gasped as one; women screamed and men roared their bloodlust. The girl on the wheel was oblivious to it all, and her eyes rolled back into her skull.

“Since the dawn of time, woman has been the root of all evil!” The priest lowered his voice to a whisper – yet even then, his words carried far. The people immediately grew silent, hanging onto his every word as if possessed by the very magic he himself was accusing the girl of casting. The air was thick with tension. “Driven by naught but their carnal lust, is it any wonder that they fall prey to demons? Serving them to slake their unnatural desires and inborn wantonness?”

“I’ll show him the root of all evil,” Milva spat. “Witcher, if you want to stop him you’d better do so now, else I will. That I promise you.”

Geralt did not reply; the priest had taken one step back and glanced to the side, away from the crowd. He gestured to something behind him. Geralt could not see over the heads of the peasants in front of him, but he heard the pants and gasps for breath as two men heaved something heavy towards the dais.

“Sorceresses, witches, and cunning women one and all – they have but one goal in mind! The total enslavement of men! You heard of the events on Thanedd, good people. You know what happened, how they plotted and schemed! It is through their doing that our lands have been thrown into such chaos and discord! Nilfgaard advances on our peaceful realm, and what for? Why, the answer is simple! A woman! For what other reason have wars been waged since time immemorial?”

“I can think of a few,” Zoltan muttered. Again Geralt remained silent – rage had begun to coil deep within him, slowly burning, pulsing. He thought of Ciri, and of his vision. He thought of the girl tied helplessly to the wheel. They were of a similar age.

He felt a hand enclose warningly around his shoulder. He spared Regis the briefest of glances – the man nodded his head towards the men who had at last dragged their burden to the top of the dais. The crowd reeled back in terror-filled awe.

“But fear not, gentle folk. I show you proof that such evil can be rooted out! See here the latest of her victims! See her crimes, and know this – she shall be thrown to the flame from whence she has come! No vampire shall haunt our peaceful village when this whore has been subjected to the holy fire!”

The crowd roared. Their screams echoed in Geralt’s ears until he could barely think. The ground felt as if it shook with the weight of their voices, one and all. But, again, he ignored it. He had seen what those men had thrown to the platform by the girl’s feet, and he knew at once that he had to act.

He pushed through the people gathered around him, his forcefulness as he shoved them aside causing hollers and yelps to quickly intermingle with their ecstatic cries for blood. Behind him his companions followed close on the witcher’s heels, and soon enough another silence had blanketed across the camp when they had reached the front of the line.

The priest, frowning, glanced down at them. He saw the twin swords on Geralt’s back and he glowered.

“What is the meaning of this? Who are you, vagabond? Speak!” Spittle flecked down to the ground from his lips. Geralt kept his eyes on the corpses. 

“Corpses look old,” he pointed out, his voice level despite the turmoil he felt within. “About a week old I’m guessing. When did you say they were attacked? Recently?”

He ran his eyes over the pale body of a woman; she had been old, brittle. Her hair was white at the crown of her head and her wrinkled face was hidden under the limbs of a young child draped carelessly atop her. But there was no blood, and no visible cut or claw wound that he could see. The rancid stench of decay had been masked by sweet-smelling oils – no doubt intended to keep the body fresher for longer. Just as before he doubted that a vampire had been at fault here, and now he was certain of that fact. He glanced at what was visible of her neck and he saw a dark discolouration by her jugular – the imprints were hand shaped, like someone had gripped her tightly by the throat and squeezed. Her lips were blue from lack of oxygen; she had been murdered, there was no doubt of that. Suffocated in her sleep.

The crowd remained silent. The priest continued to glare.

“Said a vampire was attacking the victims.” Geralt lifted his head at long last, having glanced at the child – ignoring the ugly coil of hatred that curled in his stomach as he did so – and seeing that the lad’s wounds were the same. His fingers curled into fists by his side again, clenching tight until he felt the sting of his nails digging deep into his flesh. It took great effort to force the words from his lips.

“Strange. Both the child and the woman look in reasonably good shape for people attacked by a monster like that. Where’s the claw marks? The puncture wounds from the fangs? The dismembered limbs where it sliced them up? Unless lesser vampires have drastically changed their approach to feeding, seems to me like they were strangled in their sleep.”

Behind him Zoltan cursed violently; Milva and Dandelion gasped audibly and Regis remained silent. But Geralt could feel the man's anger almost as well as he felt his own when Regis took another step closer to his side. Geralt felt it as keenly as he felt the brush of a warm hand against his back, and he was glad that the barber-surgeon was with him in that moment. If he hadn’t been, the witcher knew that he would lose it.

“I’ll bet the other bodies met the same fate. There never was any vampire here, was there?” Geralt met the priest’s eyes, accusing him. And yet despite his growing rage, he was impressed to see the old man’s face remain unflinching. The crowd burst into frantic hushed and questioning whispers. The peasants glanced first from Geralt and then to the priest, and the bodies that lay between them both.

The girl on the wheel writhed and giggled drunkenly.

“And who are you to accuse me so?” the priest rasped, yet he remained calm. “Who are you to claim you know what the fiend is capable of?”

“Your friends can explain,” Geralt replied coolly. “We had a disagreement when we arrived.”

“Th-they’s the ones who beat Cloggy, your Holiness,” Mole-Face stammered. Immediately the whispers around them flared anew. Geralt felt eyes boring into the back of his head – the accusing glares of many a man, woman and child. He was used to it.

The priest ran his eyes over the group assembled before him; unblinking, his gaze was cold. When he saw Milva, bow in hand, he sneered. Milva bristled under his glare, but to her credit she remained composed. She would not back down.

“Ah, yes. They mentioned something about you.” Cold eyes returned to the witcher. “So, tell me. If you claim to know it all, how do you account for her witchcraft?” He extended his hand once more to the bound girl, his voice rising with each word he spoke. “How do you explain the murders, the monsters, when you have among you a wench who struck out at one of our own? What is that before me if not another witch?”

The crowd gasped. Milva grit her teeth and her fingers tightened around her bow.

“They started it,” she muttered, eyes flaming. “I’ve a right to defend myself.”

“Ha!” The priest’s eyes bulged, his face contorting into an expression of monstrous glee. “She admits it, good people! She admits that she harbours violence within her blood, her heart as base as any whore!”

Milva growled. Her fingers shot up to her quiver, and Geralt held out a hand to hold her back. The people screamed. Men shouted for blood.

“Milva!”

She stilled. Geralt looked back at the priest. His eyes narrowed and he took another step forward.

“I’m a witcher,” he said quietly when the noise had slowly died down. “It’s my job to know.”

The priest faltered, then, when he saw the slitted pupils of Geralt’s eyes. He visibly gulped and with a surge of pleasure Geralt noted how the man took a step back.

“A witchman?!” One of the peasants gasped.

“They’s… they’s what steal young ‘uns!” another added.

Geralt exhaled slowly but did not look away.

“My companion is a woman as well-trained as any warrior,” he said slowly. He nodded to the girl tied helplessly to the wheel, still shaking, sobbing and laughing. “Just as she’s a woman whose no doubt suffered at the hands of your cruelty long enough.” He narrowed his eyes further. He felt his temper flare. Bitterness bled through into his voice. “I know there’s no vampire. How do you know she’s a witch? Have you tried asking her? She might be able to tell you if you hadn’t drugged her first.”

His words had the desired effect.

The priest stood frozen upon the dais, and the first murmurs of discord sowed themselves amongst the peasants gathered. Around him Geralt could hear the uncertainty in the questions passed back and forth between the crowd.

But it was short-lived. Of course it was.

“She… she’s always been like that,” one peasant eventually stammered, his words louder than the rest. There was a low hum of agreement.

“Never spoken one word, she has. Always been unhinged,” added another. Geralt tilted his head to the side; he ran his gaze over the heads of those gathered. He cussed fitfully under his breath.

“He's trying to obstruct the path of justice! Burn the bitch!” an older man yelled from the back, his voice reedy and thin. Yet his words carried far, and the priest’s cruel smile only grew. As the crowd quickly nodded and voiced their assent, he gestured at something behind him once more.

“Well? What say you to that, Master Witcher?” He indicated the crowd. “You’ve been here but a day. You don’t know our struggles, our laws. Things are never black and white – she’s been a curse upon this village since the moment she first arrived.”

“She… she screamed somethin’ awful when she got here!” One of the peasants close to Geralt nodded. “Started… wailin’ and shrieking, like she was possessed!”

“Because she is!” another roared. The crowd echoed their agreement.

“She was brewing some foul magic broth last night,” a woman cried. “No doubt planning to visit her vampire lover! To cast more dark spells on us and kill us all!”

“Hear, hear!”

“Burn her! _Burn her!”_

Geralt grit his teeth and in that moment, as the crowd’s noise thrummed against his ears, he felt his shoulders sag under the weight of their voices. He did not have time for this.

“What say you, Master Witcher?” the priest crowed again, laughing with glee.

Geralt felt all eyes on him once more, even those of his companions. He sighed and could not face them – not even Regis.

“Don’t know what she did before we got here,” he admitted. He held the priest’s glare and matched it with his own. “But I can’t stand by and watch as you burn this woman in front of us. I refuse to.”

“So be it.” The priest nodded sagely, then reached out to take hold of a horseshoe passed to him by the heavy set man who had bound the young woman. He looked at the brute and smiled. “Prepare the fire.”

Geralt blinked, his eyes widening.

“Wait – what’re you doing?!”

“Behold, good people, the moment of blessed truth!” The priest ignored the witcher as his accomplice ignited a torch and thrust it into the cauldron of coals he had pushed towards the girl’s feet. The coals hissed and sparked, and erupted into a violent orange flame. The priest cast the horseshoe into the fire. Smoke billowed from the cauldron’s heated depths.

“Let us see what the sinner reveals when her flesh sizzles and burns! We shall pull a confession from her this day, I promise you! Through this trial of ordeal, the witch shall reveal all!”

The crowd screamed – so loud were their cries that they sounded rabid, deranged. Geralt again cussed sharply, watching as the girl writhed upon the wheel, tears streaming down her cheeks as her head bobbed and lolled.

“Geralt, ye best have an idea already!” Zoltan roared beside him. The witcher glanced around him, seeing the uncertain looks on his companion’s faces – uncertain and anguished. If he did not act soon, then they would – he could see it in Milva’s restless fingers as she gripped her bow, and Zoltan’s curses as he slowly reached for his axe.

Regis continued to remain silent, but there was fear in his eyes. It was impossible to hide it when he returned Geralt’s gaze.

“Stop.” Geralt looked back at the priest, holding out a hand. The priest glared at him, agitated. The crowd’s noise slowly died down once more. “You want a trial? You’ll get one. But you’ll have to get through me first.” He let his words hang in the air, allowing their meaning to reach the priest’s ears.

He would not let an innocent burn. Neutrality be damned. 

The crowd gasped. Somewhere behind him he heard the heavy slumps of a body as someone fainted.

“Geralt,” Dandelion whispered uncertainly, taking a step closer to his friend’s side, “I hope you know what you’re doing…”

Geralt smiled thinly.

“So do I.”

“Ha!” The priest threw back his head and laughed a hoarse and reedy laugh. _“You?_ You are a trained killer! A mutant! You wish to stand trial with your sword?”

“Aye, he does! And if that ain’t enough I’ll gladly meet you all with my axe!” Zoltan announced, drawing his axe from his shoulders. The crowd drew back, fear cutting through the air and lancing through it like a knife.

“Or meet me in archery!” Milva yelled, drawing an arrow from her quiver and turning around to face the crowds that quickly dispersed from the group. The guards that had been watching from afar straightened to attention, quickly approaching with grim faces as they gripped their swords in warning. “I’ll show you what a _witch_ can do!”

“You’ll do no such thing,” the priest gloated, making no show of hiding the pleasure on his face. “See how they rush to defend the witch, good folk! See how they threaten us! They would cut us down without batting an eye, these creatures born of base depravity!” His gleeful laughter rang throughout the camp, drawing uncertain gazes from both the witcher and his friends, as well as the terrified peasants.

“What’s so funny?” Geralt hissed. The priest pointed at him.

“You have a lot to learn of our rules, vagrant! There will be no fairness in this act if any of us were to stand up to the likes of you, nay. You want a trial, then I shall give _you_ one!” He sneered. “You wish to go through fire for her, then fire you shall indeed pass through!”

He pointed at the heated cauldron from which the coals now glowed a violent, vivid red. The heat coming from the metal pot was palpable; Geralt could taste the acrid scent of smoke and iron on his tongue. He knew what the priest was intending before the man even opened his mouth. He growled, fixing him with thinly veiled hatred in his snakelike eyes.

“The horseshoes await! I invite you three to step forwards, if that is what you truly wish to do – by all means, cast your hand into the flames and whomsoever pulls forth the shoe from the coals and betrays no signs of burning will have determined the witch’s innocence. But if not…” the priest smiled; he bared his teeth and they were rotten, “then it will be the death of you all.”

The guards enclosed around the group, laughter slowly emanating from their chests as they tightened their grip on their weapons and leered at the witcher’s company. They had them right where they wanted them. They knew the impossibility of the task the priest had set before the strangers, and they were simply waiting.

Geralt looked at the faces of his companions; Dandelion took half a step back, his blue eyes shot wide with fear. Zoltan narrowed his eyes at the guards, but he cast an uncertain glance back at the fire. Milva cussed fitfully, spitefully, yet for all her anger even she looked defenceless in the face of the task set before them. And Regis stood silent as the grave, eyes closed, his expression unreadable.

Geralt wanted to know what the man was thinking in that moment. He could have used a comforting word in parting, or some small piece of advice. Advice as to what exactly, he did not know. But something was better than nothing.

He felt a dull stab of regret rise inside of him – they should never have come here. He had put them all in needless danger. He looked back at the coals, smoking and burning. He saw the horseshoe glowing white-hot. Not even he could reach in and pick it out unscathed.

Perhaps a Sign? Quen, maybe?

He dismissed the thought as soon as it had entered his mind.

_No._

He would have to do this by himself, fairly, or not at all. He remained silent and said not a word.

“I have spoken.” The priest stepped back, smiling with satisfaction in his dark eyes as he extended a hand toward the cauldron, waiting to see who would take the first step forward. The crowd was still, no one daring to breathe. All eyes were on the witcher and his friends, and Geralt felt their gazes keenly.

He considered. He remembered Blaviken, of how he had once slaughtered a handful of bandits to save an entire town. He had succeeded insofar as stopping the bandits, but his name was forever stained by the weight of his actions, and the blood that he had drawn and painted the ground with. _Butcher of Blaviken._

The comparison was uncanny as he ran through his options now. If all of them were to make it out of here alive, there could only be one way to do so. His job was to kill monsters, after all.

He lifted his hand slowly and touched the hilt of his steel sword.

A sharp intake of breath echoed around the entire campsite. He heard the guards step closer around them. He closed his eyes – and opened them again when a warm hand enclosed around his own.

“One moment, please.”

The crowd stirred, and Geralt turned to see Regis stride forwards towards the dais. The man smiled grimly, familiar determination in his black eyes. He dropped his hand from Geralt’s own as he passed, and Geralt felt his fingers leave the hilt of his sword as he watched, stunned. He heard the confused whispers of his friends as they too gazed at the barber-surgeon approaching the amused looking priest. And yet Geralt could think of nothing.

“Regis?”

Regis ignored him and stopped in front of the priest, pausing a moment to survey the crowd in full. Geralt could not see his face clearly as the man’s grey locks brushed past his cheeks, but he could feel the weight of Regis’ gaze upon those gathered as he stood a moment longer there in silence.

“You wish to take up the trial?” the priest crowed, mocking the barber-surgeon as he took him in. Regis nodded, turning his head to look calmly back at the man.

“I do.”

Smiling unkindly, the priest indicated the coals. The girl whimpered against her bonds.

“What the hell does he think he’s doing?” Milva hissed beside Geralt. Geralt held out a hand to silence her.

“Not now, Milva.”

She heard the strain in Geralt’s voice and stopped, eyeing him curiously as Geralt kept his eyes focused intently upon the man above. He gave no heed to her pointed stare, not caring for it in the least as Regis roamed his eyes fleetingly over the crowds in one final, calculating gaze. Then his eyes dropped to find Geralt, seeking him out unerringly amongst the crowd – and in the long, pregnant pause that followed as black eyes met gold, something unspoken passed between them.

It seemed to give Regis courage, or something like it. Smiling thinly, he kept his eyes locked on the witcher as he stooped down and thrust his hand into the open flame.

Screams rent the air; the crowd shrank back, wailing and howling in disbelief. The priest, too, ogled in shock at the sight. Dandelion and Zoltan traded curses, eyes blown wide. Milva gripped Geralt’s arm in a vice-like hold, clasping her free hand to her gaping mouth.

Geralt saw and heard the havoc that sowed the camp in disarray; he felt the fear around him, and yet he alone remained quiet and still. He watched and waited. And all the while his mind was turning.

He felt a strange sense of calm wash over him. Calm and perhaps, at long last, understanding.

“This was the idea if I’m not mistaken, your reverence,” Regis announced softly when the noise and whimpers slowly died down. He finally turned his head, breaking away from the pull of Geralt’s gaze. The witcher exhaled softly when those black eyes focused on the priest instead.

Regis straightened up, clasping the glowing white horseshoe in his bare hand. Gripping it firmly, he remained seemingly unaffected by the scalding heat that emanated off it in waves. The priest choked back a cry when he saw it, and his eyes darted madly first from the horseshoe then back to the barber-surgeon who held it.

“By your own words, I believe this confirms the woman is innocent,” Regis continued. “Her defenders are innocent.” His smile softened, though a hard glint was in his eyes. “And I, too, am also innocent. Wouldn’t you agree?”

The priest extended a shaking hand.

“Sh-show me,” he rasped hoarsely. “Show me, vagrant!”

Regis raised his hand, the horseshoe still firmly grasped in his long fingers. Then, so that everyone could bear witness, he slowly passed the horseshoe to his free hand, leaving his palm outstretched and open.

Even from here Geralt could see, just like all the others, that neither a burn nor a scar marked his pale flesh.

“I remain unharmed,” Regis confirmed, casting his eyes back upon the priest who took another staggering step back.

The man was at a loss for words, his mouth quivering like a fish, and the crowd’s noise became unbearable. But even though he stood in the face of such irrefutable evidence of the woman’s innocence, not even that trial of fire could satisfy the priest. Geralt saw it in the fearful flash of the man’s gaze as he rounded on Regis with anger in his eyes.

“Monster,” he said, slowly at first, whispering the word as it fell sluggishly from his lips. Then, as the crowd’s roar pulsed in the air, he raised his voice and screamed. _“Monster!”_

The chant was taken up by the crowd. All eyes were upon the barber-surgeon: accusing, cursing, damning. Something dark passed across Regis’ face – a brief flicker of emotion in his otherwise unreadable gaze – and it was gone before Geralt could fully comprehend having seen it. But he knew that he did not like that look. It said many things, and gave away a great deal many more. 

Regis threw the horseshoe back into the coals. He turned his head.

“If that is the case then you have nothing to fear,” he said quietly, though his voice still carried. “After all, there is a witcher amongst us.” He found Geralt’s eyes once again, and Geralt returned the look. His face betrayed nothing in that moment, as did the expression Regis fixed him with.

“Isn’t that right, Geralt?” The words were uttered so softly that Geralt knew they had been intended for his ears only; no one else picked up on them as Regis’ lips moved. 

Geralt nodded.

The screams grew louder from the back of the camp; the priest, in his terror, flew from the dais. He gestured to the guards.

“Kill them!” His reedy voice was raised to a high-pitched shriek. Geralt turned, as did Regis, as did Milva, as did Zoltan and Dandelion. The witcher growled, hand flying to his sword now and drawing the steel from its scabbard, the blade glinting cruelly in the light.

Zoltan roared and gripped his axe, and Milva nocked an arrow as witcher and dwarf took the fore. But they did not get further than that – in amongst the screams, the wails, the terror-filled cries, there was the distinct sound of hoof beats.

These sounds were swiftly accompanied by the clanking of armour, and the clashing of steel and plate. Geralt cocked his head, turned to face the sound, and his eyes blew wide.

_“Se’ege na tuvean! Aen Ard Feainn!”_

“Nilfgaard cavalrymen!” one of the guards shouted, gripping his sword as the first group of soldiers rode into view; their armour was black and their horses frothed at the mouths. “Every man for himself!”

All forgot about the trial, the girl, and the priest. In that one instant chaos unfurled before their eyes.

“Geralt, we have to get out of here! Now!” Milva cried beside him, and Geralt spurred into action – he pointed in the direction of the makeshift stables where their horses had been kept over the evening.

“Grab the horses! Head east!”

He span around to the dais, seeing Regis quickly racing over. Fear was in his eyes, cold, sharp and clear. The woman that had been strapped to the wheel was no longer there – in the confusion Regis had released her. Geralt was grateful, but there was no time to stand on ceremony.

“Regis, get them out of here!”

The man nodded, sparing Geralt one final look before urging Milva in front and gesturing for Dandelion to follow. Zoltan had already raced forwards, eager to meet the sword lowered down to cut him off when a Nilfgaardian soldier saw him and spurred his horse in the dwarf’s direction.

“Duvvelsheyss!” Zoltan roared, knocking the soldier off his mount and causing the horse to scream and rear back. He embedded the head of his axe into the soldier’s neck before he could so much as move. “Death to the whoresons! Geralt! Been a pleasure, but the lads’ve arrived right on time!”

Geralt parried the blow another soldier had thrust his way; the man’s horse bucked, toppling him off and the Nilfgaardian fell to the ground with an echoing thud. Geralt saw a group of familiar looking dwarves entering the camp from the opposite side of the gates led by Munro Bruys – he nodded and thrust his blade deep into the Black One’s neck.

“Can you keep them off us?” he yelled over the sound of the horses and their frantic neighing. Zoltan pumped his fist in the air, looking victorious.

“Of course!” And he was off.

Geralt panted, only able to spare one final look in the dwarf’s direction before his sight was cut off by another group of Nilfgaardian cavalrymen storming into the camp; banners raised high, the golden sun fluttered fiercely above the crowds. Gritting his teeth, he tried to keep focused – he heard the battle and smelled the steel, the blood, the sweat and the fear that broke out upon the Chotla.

“Geralt!”

The witcher turned, cussing fitfully once more as he saw Dandelion ambling towards him; his progress was immediately cut off by a soldier drawing his mount across his path. Geralt acted quickly; the poet shrieked and cowered when the witcher leapt towards the Nilfgaardian, parrying blow after blow as the soldier clashed swords with him on horseback.

“Dandelion! What the hell’re you still doing here?” Geralt pulled his hand back, bringing Aard to his fingertips – he cast the Sign and both the horse and soldier toppled to the ground. “Find Regis!”

“We got cut off!”

Geralt growled and pulled Dandelion to the ground to hide behind a cart which had just been overturned in the ruckus. The thundering of hooves surrounded them. He saw fire around him – the world became trapped in an inferno as soldiers set light to torches and threw them at the huts. The Nilfgaardian he had pushed back with the Sign groaned and whimpered under the weight of his horse; his armour was crushed and dented, and blood pooled around him.

Geralt cast an eye quickly around the battlefield – he could see no sign of Regis, or the others. His heart beat sluggishly in his chest; he feared that something had happened. For a moment something cold and dark gripped his heart and squeezed until he could no longer breathe.

_No…_

_“Geralt!”_

He groaned aloud in relief. That voice was unmistakeable. He gripped Dandelion by the shoulders and pulled him up, and there, behind the mad dash of horses, soldiers, peasants and black banners, he saw Regis with Milva in front of the huts.

A large distance separated them, but even that was not enough to fully hide the terror he saw in the barber-surgeon's gaze; a terror that Geralt knew was echoed upon his own face. Geralt grit his teeth, his mind working fast.

“Dandelion, run.”

Dandelion gaped.

“What?!”

“Run! Zoltan will cover us!” Geralt gripped Dandelion tightly around the shoulder, digging his fingers into the silk doublet the poet wore. He pushed him roughly forwards, and he wasted no time in springing to his feet to follow. The dwarves, led by Zoltan and Munro, had successfully drawn a small group of Nilfgaardians towards them and away from the witcher and his friend.

There was now enough space in amongst the chaos to dash towards the huts. But it was a very narrow stretch of space – they could not waste a second longer.

“Geralt, what about that Nilfgaardian who was supposed to warn us?” Dandelion huffed and panted beside him, jumping out of the way of a rearing horse who had long ago bucked off its rider. Geralt paid him no mind – his sights were set firmly on Regis, who he could see had gestured for Milva to grab the horses and go. Regis beckoned to him, urging him to hurry up. Black eyes locked on gold, and there was despair in that gaze.

Geralt grit his teeth even tighter – he could feel his jaw clench painfully with the effort.

“Don’t know. Don’t care.” He would have time to think about Cahir later. That was not what was important now.

“Geralt, hurry!” Regis’ voice was clearer now as they loomed closer. He was within distance; through the dust and debris and the slaughter Geralt would make it if his luck lasted. Regis reached out a hand as if to pull the witcher towards him; Geralt thrust his arm out, his fingers close, just within reach – but Regis’ eyes slowly widened, and with a sinking heart Geralt knew that his luck had already run out. 

_“Geralt, look out!”_

Dandelion’s cry caught the witcher’s attention; foolishly, he turned his head to find the source of the poet’s distress. He saw hooves, swords and banners – not black, this time, but blue. As the soldiers cornered him and Dandelion both, the last thing Geralt remembered was seeing the silver lilies of the Temerian infantry dazzling high above before a rearing horse kicked him in the head and sent him spiralling down into a dizzying darkness.


	11. Chapter 11

He slowly came to with a dull, ceaseless throbbing in his head.

As he blinked his eyes open he felt the pain rocket through his skull, almost forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut once more. Groaning, his voice sounding hoarse and grating to his ears, Geralt willed himself to pull through the discomfort. That was when he discovered that he had been propped upright in a seated position and his arms were bound. He had difficulty in moving given how tightly his hands had been wound behind his back, and the only thing that prevented him from falling face forwards was the warm body to which he had been tied up against.

Even in the dizzying haze that enveloped his senses, he was quick to realise that that body gave off the wrong type of warmth, and carried the wrong type of scent. He smelled a familiar floral cologne that was too sweet, too strong: _Nuits de Beauclair._ He knew of only one person who wore that fragrance.

He grit his teeth and turned his head, ignoring the sharp jab of pain this awarded him as he fixed his gaze on the back of Dandelion’s head. The position was too awkward for him to take note of his friend fully, but Geralt could see that the poet was stirring slowly and would be awake soon. His cap had fallen off at some point and lay by the man’s feet; another quick glance around saw Dandelion’s priceless lute tossed unceremoniously in amongst the various crates and sacks stowed in the corner of the tent that the both of them were occupying. Geralt sighed and turned his head back around.

The witcher noted that his swords, too, had been taken from him, and he felt a growing sense of disquiet as he found them lying just within a few feet of his bound form – so close, but yet so far. At least they had been stowed away with some degree of care; the steel and silver blades glinted from the weapon racks that newly housed them.

He tilted his head back, using the tent pole they were tied to as a headrest as he considered their situation. The pain was slowly receding now. He could think.

They had been captured, that was glaringly obvious. The supplies and weapons he saw stowed around the tent indicated that they were in a military compound of some description. He thought back to the last thing he remembered before he had fallen in the Chotla: silver lilies.

So the Temerians had caught up to them in the end. He supposed, all things considered, that they were fortunate enough not to have ended up in Nilfgaardian hands instead.

He sighed and cast his gaze to the tent’s entrance, where he now discovered that the flaps had been closed and secured. He felt disoriented in the face of that knowledge – he had no clue how long he had been unconscious for, or even what time of day it was. His stomach then sank as he thought back to his companions – to Milva, and to Regis. He had no way of knowing if they had made it out of the camp safely.

He closed his eyes and ignored the fresh stab of pain – of a different kind – that lanced through him when his thoughts turned to the barber-surgeon. 

Regis would have ensured that they had made it out of there. Geralt knew this. He knew this because even though he wasn’t one to put faith in blind hope, somehow some instinctive part of him realised that his concern would be needless. After all, before he and Dandelion had been captured Geralt had told them to stick to their plan and leave for the eastern roads, and Regis knew the paths that they would need to take to reach Caed Dhu better than anyone else. With a bit of luck he and Milva had been able to do just that.

Now all that remained was for Geralt himself and Dandelion to catch up with them. And then…

Then they would talk.

He closed his eyes and lapsed deep into thought. He remained doing so until he at last heard Dandelion groan quietly behind him, and felt him stir in his bindings.

“Come on, wake up,” Geralt muttered as he nudged his friend in the back with his elbow. Dandelion groaned again and winced, startling into wakefulness as he blinked rapidly and looked the tent up and down.

 _“Ugh,_ my head… Geralt?” The man’s voice was as raspy as Geralt’s had been; he turned his head and saw the witcher behind him. A quick struggle against the rope that kept him in place alerted Dandelion to the position that they were both in. He groaned again, despairingly. “I thought it was all just a bad dream…”

“Would’ve been nice in comparison.” Geralt tilted his head to the side to see the poet better. “We’re in a Temerian camp. How long’ve we been tied up here? Do you know?”

Dandelion’s brows scrunched together in thought.

“No… I… remember it being late afternoon when the Black Ones attacked—” Dandelion’s eyes shot wide open and he hissed as he twisted back around to look at his friend. “Geralt, the others! They're—”

“They made it out,” Geralt said quietly. Dandelion did not look so readily convinced.

“How do you know? Did you see them?”

“I just know.” Geralt made no effort to explain further. He quickly changed the subject. “Do you remember anything after the attack? Anything at all?”

Dandelion sighed and slumped back. He was silent for a moment.

“Well… after we were cornered and you—” He gestured to Geralt’s head, and the witcher nodded for him to continue, “—those soldiers dismounted and tied us up. They had to sling you on the back of one of their horses. I don’t remember much after that. One of them must have knocked me unconscious shortly after.” He paused, and then, slowly, his expression grew fearful. “Geralt… they must think we’re Nilfgaardian spies.”

Geralt growled.

“Dammit.” He wasn’t expecting Dandelion to have all the answers for him, but he had been hoping for something more substantial at the very least. Dandelion quickly continued.

“But shortly before they took us away, I heard one of them mention their marshal – a man called Vissegerd.” 

Geralt grew silent upon hearing that name. Dandelion noticed this and tried to fix his eyes on his friend.

“Geralt?”

He was ignored for a moment, the witcher instead retreating back into his thoughts. That was a name he had not heard for quite some time – sixteen years to be exact, when he had attended the feast in honour of Princess Pavetta on that fateful evening when everything had begun.

“Dandelion,” he said at length, looking at the opposite side of the tent and inspecting the loose papers scattered atop a small desk that had been placed in the corner, “do you think you can get us out of here?”

“Me? How? What can I do?” Dandelion asked, confused.

“I don’t know. Talk our way out of here. It’s what you’re good at.”

Dandelion narrowed his eyes.

“I’m good at more than just that,” he muttered and looked away again. “Sounds to me like you know that man and you want to avoid him at all costs.”

“You’d be right.” Geralt nodded. He could feel the incredulous stare Dandelion fixed him with. “And I still wouldn’t feel like talking to him even if that wasn’t the case. You’re always saying how gifted you are with diplomacy – we need to leave. Now.”

Dandelion sighed.

“Well, I recognised one of the knights,” he said slowly. “He was the son of Anzelm Aubry, who I know well. And then there was a man bearing the Papebrock coat of arms – also a family I know well. I suppose I could—”

“Great, do what you have to do. No theatrics, just keep it short and simple when they get here,” Geralt interrupted, not interested in the history that Dandelion had with the knights and their families. He wanted results. He wanted his freedom before Vissegerd got his hands on him.

Dandelion fell silent.

The minutes slowly ticked by, and Geralt used the time to focus on the sounds he could hear from outside their tent. A few feet away, some soldiers were playing cards. He could also hear some snippets of their conversation – the Temerians had apparently wiped out the Nilfgaardian cavalry that had sacked the Chotla. That was good news, at least.

“Geralt,” Dandelion began after a while, and the witcher turned his head once more to face him, “why didn’t Cahir warn us?”

“I don’t know.” Just like before when Dandelion had asked him in the camp, Geralt wasn’t keen on worrying about that right now. He wished to banish all thoughts of Cahir from his mind. If he ever saw the man again he did not quite know what he would do, though he knew that killing him was definitely high on the list.

There was another moment of silence.

“And Regis? You saw how he put his hand in that fire like it was nothing. No man could do that. There has to be an explanation.”

Geralt smiled thinly, though he knew that Dandelion could not see it.

“There probably is,” he admitted. “And I’m sure he’ll tell you himself.”

He did not mention how it pained him to think of Regis in that moment. But thankfully Dandelion eventually seemed to pick up on Geralt’s discomfort. He dropped all further attempts at conversation and the minutes stretched on without another word.

Gradually those minutes soon lengthened into what felt like hours; Geralt felt the slow passage of time and willed it to quicken. The low hum of conversation outside was a much needed distraction, though Geralt grew annoyed when Dandelion eventually began to twist and shift against his bonds. He was not as accustomed to sitting still for extended periods of time as the witcher was, and on more than one occasion Geralt had had to elbow his friend sharply in the back to encourage him to stop fidgeting.

As it was Geralt felt the limits of his patience being stretched dangerously thin when finally, at long last, the sound of footsteps could be heard fast approaching. Dandelion straightened up and looked considerably more alert, having heard them too. They shared a glance with one another and watched as the tent flap opened.

The first thing that Geralt noticed was that it was growing dark outside.

From where he had been tied up facing the tent’s entrance, it provided him the best vantage point to see past the canvas and out into the world beyond. The sun had just dipped below the horizon, enshrouding the land in a post-dusk haze. He felt his irritation rise; they had been in this camp for the better part of the late afternoon. That was too long. Far too long.

The second thing he noticed was that with the night’s onset a chill had begun to encroach upon the campsite. The fresh air that gusted in brought with it a frigid cold. He did not mind it, however – rather, given how long it had been since they had been bound inside the musty old tent, the breath of fresh air was well worth the bite it carried with it as he inhaled deeply and filled his lungs.

The third and final thing he noticed was the young man who entered garbed in gleaming, golden plate armour that rattled with each step he took. He was tall and considerably thin, and his eyes bore a fatigue in them that spoke of a man haunted by the tragedies of war. Yet there was something noble, too, in his gaze – he would not be unreasonable and did not carry the air of a man who was quick to pass judgement, Geralt noted silently.

And he was not the man that he had been expecting and fearing. That was enough reason in and of itself for the witcher to exhale softly as the soldier approached.

“The lads told me they’d captured some Nilfgaardian spies,” he announced as he stopped within a few feet of the prisoners, his tone pleasant as he looked them up and down. He almost looked amused. “Funny. You don’t look a thing like any Black Ones we fought today.”

Geralt heard Dandelion gasp behind him, and he turned his head in time to see his friend’s face light up considerably.

“That’s because we’re not,” Dandelion scoffed, and he grinned toothily at the soldier in front of them. “You of all people should know that, Count.”

“Friend of yours?” Geralt muttered, arching a brow. Dandelion hissed at him to remain quiet.

“A humble acquaintance, more like.” The man smiled again. “Indeed you’d be hard pressed to find a man here who hasn’t heard of Master Dandelion. It’s been too long since we’ve last seen you at Foltest’s court, sir.”

Geralt felt his brows arch, and all previous irritation he had been feeling gave way in the face of sheer disbelief. Dandelion positively preened at the attention, the bard seeming to puff up his chest in a show of self-importance as he nodded to the soldier.

“Geralt, allow me to introduce to you the Count of Garramone, Daniel Etcheverry.”

The count bowed his head to Geralt. Geralt did not return the gesture.

“Get us out of here, Dandelion,” he urged his friend in a quiet whisper. Dandelion fixed him with a glare and cleared his throat.

“My friend and I would like to know why we’ve been captured.”

The count had the decency to look sheepish.

“You’ll have to excuse the men,” he began. “They see Nilfgaardian spies every which way they turn. It’s hard not to, given the current state of the war.”

“Absolutely,” Dandelion nodded. “I can assure you it’s all been a terrible misunderstanding. My friend and I were travelling from Dillingen to… Maribor.” He cleared his throat. “It was just our luck to get caught up in it all when the Nilfgaardians attacked.”

Count Etcheverry looked convinced. Geralt watched him, gauging each second and each reaction carefully. He did not believe in miracles, but if Dandelion somehow succeeded now he had half a mind to start doing so until his dying day.

“They attacked without warning,” the count nodded solemnly. “Nobody knew they were in the area lying in wait for the assault. In fact we wouldn’t have arrived when we did if it hadn’t been for our scouts stumbling across a small camp of Black Ones already killed.”

Geralt felt his interest in the conversation suddenly rekindled.

“Someone got to them already?” he asked, drawing the count’s attention once more to him. “Who? Where?”

“I can’t rightly say, sir,” Etcheverry replied. “We don’t know. The lads didn’t see him – or them, as we have no way of knowing if this person acted alone. But the bodies were found on the outskirts of the Chotla. Four of them there were, all of them cut down with an excellent display of swordsmanship if I dare to say so myself. Never seen cleaner wounds in my life.”

“Interesting…” Geralt lapsed back into silence. He frowned, wondering if he didn’t already have some small idea as to just who it was that had alerted the Temerians to the attack. It would explain a great number of things, after all. Especially given that only one other person that he knew of had claimed to want to keep watch on the Chotla’s borders in the first place. But without proof he had no means to support that theory, so he let it lie – for now, at least. If it was indeed who he thought it was, however, he felt a newfound respect for the man in question – certainly much more respect than he had been feeling towards him earlier.

“But enough of that,” the count continued, stepping away and making to stride back towards the tent’s entrance. “I was told to see these so-called spies the men captured, and if you’re secretly a Nilfgaardian cohort then I’m Queen Meve.” He chuckled. “I’ll inform the marshal and have you both released at once, sirs.”

“Couldn’t you do it now? Save us both some time?” Dandelion asked quickly, seeing the look Geralt shot him when Etcheverry turned his back. Etcheverry paused, and a conflicted look entered his sharp eyes.

“Well… I—”

“Should chain them and send them on the back of a cart to await trial.”

Their heads turned to face the source of the new voice. It had come from the entrance to the tent. Geralt, already knowing who it was – because fate indeed liked to play the cruellest of tricks on him at the best of times, it seemed – felt a sharp stab of despair in his gut.

He was thankful his face betrayed no sign of his inner turmoil as he slowly swivelled his gaze to meet the newcomer.

Grey haired and wizened for his years, the man was broad shouldered and his belly sported considerable girth. His armour, fashioned with the Cintrian coat of arms, gleamed just as brightly as Count Etcheverry’s own. He wore a long cloak fastened at his shoulder, and the silk fluttered behind him as he moved. As he stopped in front of the trio he sneered down at them all, revealing a mouth full of yellow teeth. His face was stern, and the deep frown lines on his brow told of a man who rarely smiled.

He looked exactly as Geralt remembered him.

“Marshal Vissegerd?” Etcheverry blinked, casting a confused glance first at the older man and then back to Geralt’s and Dandelion’s bound forms. He appeared just as surprised as they at the marshal’s sudden appearance. “How am I to understand this? They aren’t spies – that is the celebrated poet Dandelion and—”

“The witcher. Geralt of Rivia. Or should I say the 'Honourable Ravix of Fourhorn'?” Vissegerd’s sneer grew tenfold, and his face looked truly hideous as he locked eyes on the witcher. Geralt gazed calmly up at him, though his hands curled into fists behind his back. “I know him. We’ve met before, at the feast of Princess Pavetta sixteen years ago. Do you remember, witcher?”

Geralt nodded.

“I do.”

“And you must surely remember the scandal that erupted when you made your claim on Pavetta’s unborn child. Cirilla, heir to Cintra’s throne – the same young girl whom the entire North is currently being turned inside-out over.”

Geralt said nothing. His jaw clenched. He felt Dandelion shift uncomfortably behind him, and the witcher knew that any attempt his friend made now to somehow talk them out of this would fail.

“Cirilla? The Lion Cub of Cintra?” Etcheverry whispered. Vissegerd sneered again.

“The same.”

A heavy silence filled the tent. Vissegerd looked pleased with himself and clasped his hands behind his back, beginning to pace from one length of the tent to the other.

“I’d say our lads captured something worth far more than Nilfgaardian spies,” he continued, his voice booming. “Because when the time came for the Black Ones to attack, the witcher took Cirilla, hid her, and sold her out to Emhyr.”

Geralt continued to remain silent, but at last Dandelion could not take it anymore.

“Now hold on just a moment!” He looked at Vissegerd, his mouth gaping wide. “Geralt didn’t kidnap her! He found Ciri – _alone_ – in Riverdell after she’d fled Cintra, and he helped her to _flee_ the Nilfgaardians, not hand her over to them!”

“Dandelion,” Geralt warned quietly, not taking his eyes away from Vissegerd. Dandelion ignored him.

“We’ve been looking for her ever since she went missing on the Isle of Thanedd! Go on! Ask any of the sorcerers who were there! What you’re accusing us of is all lies! Geralt was injured gravely trying to defend her from her attackers!”

“Dandelion—”

“I will not sit here and have you speak to us in such a way, sir! You don’t have any idea what—”

_“Dandelion.”_

Dandelion finally stopped, hearing the harsh bite in Geralt’s voice as the witcher snapped at him. He gulped, his blue eyes darting frantically from Vissegerd, to Etcheverry, and then at last back to Geralt.

“But… Geralt—”

“That’s enough,” Geralt muttered. “He’s already made up his mind.”

Any further attempt Dandelion would have made to continue arguing their case died immediately on his tongue. The damage was done. He slumped heavily against his friend’s back.

Vissegerd’s smile grew triumphant.

“And yet somehow Cirilla still seems to have found herself amongst Emhyr’s cohort,” he said knowingly, nodding as if to himself. “He’s all but proclaimed it – emissaries from all over have spoken of nothing else since being invited to his court and bearing witness to none other than the girl herself. He’s going to put her on the throne, and take the North with him in one fell swoop.”

He arched a brow at Dandelion and Geralt both.

“Now tell me. How does any of _that_ speak of your innocence?”

When neither man answered, he nodded once more.

“As I thought.” He turned to the count who was standing mute with shock beside him. “Keep them bound. They’ll be sent to trial in the morning.” He span on his heel, his armour clanking noisily with each step he took as he neared the tent’s entrance. Before he departed, however, he paused and fixed Geralt an amused look over his shoulder. “You will hang for this, witcher. That I promise you.”

He left. It felt as if an icy chill followed him as he walked out and into the campsite beyond.

The count remained where he was for a moment longer, looking as if he wanted to say something else. But anything he would have said could not have changed the situation – he knew that as well as Geralt and Dandelion did. Dandelion, to his credit, made one last aborted attempt at asking him for their freedom, but the count could only raise a hand, shake his head solemnly, and follow Vissegerd back outside.

The tent flaps closed behind him and the prisoners could hear the rustling of the canvas as he sealed it shut.

It was quiet for a long time after that.

Geralt closed his eyes, not allowing his thoughts to wander. If they did, he knew that he would lose what last modicum of self-control yet remained.

All his hopes lay on one person, now. Someone whom he knew would put themselves into danger time and time again to ensure his safety. His lips pressed together thinly, and before he knew it he had let out a bitter laugh. Stirred by the sudden sound, Dandelion sighed heavily behind him.

“Geralt… I’m sorry.”

Geralt stopped laughing and the silence once more echoed in their ears.

“It’s not your fault.”

He could feel Dandelion shake his head.

“I should have tried harder…”

“Dandelion.” Geralt turned his head when he felt Dandelion shift to face him better. “Let it go.”

Dandelion looked like he wanted to argue, but one look from the witcher stopped him. He nodded, slowly, and then dropped his gaze to the ground.

The minutes ticked by as slowly as they had before Etcheverry and Vissegerd had arrived.

“So what do we do now?” Dandelion asked quietly after another moment.

“I don’t know,” Geralt sighed. He truly didn’t. That was what worried him above all else. He opened his eyes again and stared at the far wall of the tent, to where his swords glinted on the weapon racks. It was something to focus on in that moment. Something to keep his mind far away.

“Do you think… what about the others? If they knew we were here… would they…?” Dandelion did not finish. He could not.

“They will,” Geralt said softly. Something in his tone must have dared to give Dandelion hope; the poet struggled against his bonds as he tried to get a better look at the witcher behind him.

“How can you possibly know that?”

Geralt smiled again, just as bitterly as his laugh had been before. That was just it, wasn’t it? How could he possibly know that their friends would inevitably find and free them in the end?

He thought of intelligent black eyes, a knowing tight-lipped smile, and a bold determination in a familiar wizened face; a determination that burned as brightly as the glowing hot coals those long hands had grasped despite knowing what that action would cost him – and what it would cost them both. 

“I just know.”

Dandelion huffed, squirming agitatedly as he muttered choice words under his breath. Geralt ignored him and tipped his head back against the tent pole.

He exhaled slowly.

_I know._

*****

It had been a long time since he had last felt fear.

It was a foreign feeling, invasive and unwelcome. It began like a small nudge in the recesses of his mind, and steadily grew in both substance and strength over time until it at last extended its claws and sunk in deeply. It was cold, cruel and unforgiving. And in all his long years of life he had never felt it more keenly or more overwhelmingly as he felt it now.

The camp was in disarray, and he had been faced with two choices that he had never wanted to make. The safety of their company, or what remained of it, was paramount – he had known that, of course. And when that priest had threatened them all, Regis likewise had known what would happen when he approached that dais.

He had known it, but he had still made that choice.

He had seen the look on the witcher’s face; the way those captivating, searching eyes stared at him as if seeing right through him as he stood there – tearing him open and leaving him bared with nothing left to hide. Regis had seen, and had felt with near blinding certainty, how understanding dawned upon Geralt in that moment. Yet Regis would willingly do it all over again if it meant that there was nothing else that lay between them.

Perhaps that had given him the courage he’d needed to put his hand in the fire.

Then the soldiers had arrived, and everything had at last spiralled out of control. The Nilfgaardians were attacking, the Temerians had cornered Geralt and Dandelion both, and Regis was left with another choice that he had never wanted to make. But he had seen the look in Geralt’s eyes in those final moments – he had seen the open desperation and pleading that had slipped through the cracks of the witcher’s carefully composed visage – and Regis had pulled Milva away and urged her into the surrounding forest just as Geralt had been struck from behind and fell.

The fear then quickly gave way to burning, violent anguish and pain, and Regis loathed it.

He strode with purpose through the thick canopy of trees, hearing the battle around him yet remaining unseen. He had kept an eye on the soldiers that had trussed both Geralt’s and Dandelion’s unconscious forms upon the backs of their horses. He watched and waited as the group rode off towards the surrounding hills, where the Temerian infantry no doubt had their camp. He knew where his companions were, just as he knew that he could not go to them now. That in itself proved the greatest fear and the greatest pain of all. But he had faith in Geralt – indeed Regis trusted him as he had trusted no other – and somehow, some instinctive part of him knew that the witcher would not be in any immediate danger. That, too, gave Regis courage.

Casting a final anxious glance in the direction of the retreating figures, Regis exhaled softly and turned around. Nightfall was still some few hours away – he would need the time to think, to prepare. But first he had to find Milva. The woman had taken the horses and had galloped deep into the forest paths at Regis’ behest.

He followed the turns and bends along the Yaruga’s banks, moving swiftly and with all manner of urgency. He could hear the last of the battle echoing sharply in his ears from the Chotla’s centre, and even from this distance he could still almost taste the metallic scents of steel and blood on his tongue.

He dismissed that thought from his mind immediately.

Through the chaos it took him some time to locate the archer; she had stopped running at one point, he had noted, as he stooped down and saw the tracks her shoes had left in the muddy ground. The horses remained with her, but he frowned when he saw a second set of prints alongside hers that had been left by hobnailed army boots. He then paused, smelling the stench of blood drawing closer now.

He was quick to realise that it was not just any blood, either; its scent was familiar. He turned his head to face the direction it came from, and Regis narrowed his eyes in thought.

Sure enough, it wasn’t long until he heard their voices, and he knew at last who it was that had caught up to Milva before him. With footsteps as silent as the dead he approached and caught the tail end of their conversation.

“—But we cannot go back.”

“We have to! I don’t know what happened to them!”

“It would be better to wait until dawn – you will not get very far if you try now. Trust me on this, please.”

“Trust you? You left us there! You were supposed to _warn_ us!”

“I tried! I was on my way to find you, but they caught me unawares on the edges of the camp! I had no choice but to engage them – I think that I was able to bring down at least four of them, but—what was that?”

Their frantic whispers broke off immediately when Regis stepped out from the shadows, and he was greeted with the sight of Milva, looking shaken but otherwise unharmed, pressing her hand to her mouth to stifle her gasp.

“Regis!”

He cast a glance at the man beside her, giving Cahir a curt nod. Cahir returned the gesture, though somewhat warily. Another sweep of his eyes over the newcomer revealed to the barber-surgeon the source of the blood that he had smelled earlier; the young man was favouring his left side and gripping his right arm against the pain. He had clearly been injured in the skirmish.

Thankfully the wound was not a mortal one, and he would recover in time.

“I’m glad to see you’re safe, Milva,” Regis said as he looked back at her. “I came to find you. Though I can also see you’re not alone.”

Milva sighed and gripped her head in frustration.

“He found me when I was taking the horses,” she said, jabbing her thumb in Cahir’s direction. She then looked fearful and gazed at Regis hesitantly. “What about the others? Geralt and that idiot bard?”

Regis almost found something akin to amusement in imagining the looks that would have surely been on Dandelion’s and Geralt's faces at having heard the poet referred to as such, but he did not allow the mirth to show in his eyes as he turned his head in the direction of the hills the soldiers had retreated to.

Any and all thoughts of where they now both lay sobered him immediately. He ignored the fresh stab of fear that lanced through him once more.

“The Temerian army have seized them,” he said quietly, thankful that his voice remained calm when he felt anything but. “They have set up their camp in the hills to the north, by the ruins of Fort Armeria. We will likely find Geralt and Dandelion there.”

He looked back just in time to see the faces of his companions fall.

“We’d need an army to get through there. And even then we wouldn’t likely make it out in one piece,” Milva said slowly. Cahir nodded grimly.

“She is right. It is too risky. There are simply not enough of us.”

“You won’t need an army. I shall take care of it.”

The others blinked, turning to Regis and openly gaping at him as he calmly spoke those words.

“You? Alone?” Cahir’s voice rose slightly in his incredulity. Even Milva looked torn at deciding whether she wished to laugh or not. But Regis ignored them; he knew what he had to do, and he would – once again – make that choice. Their friend’s lives depended on it. 

_Geralt’s_ life depended on it.

So he merely offered a thin smile. His mind was made up.

“It will be dusk soon. When night falls, take the horses and keep to the Yaruga’s waters. Stay along the banks until the river crosses into the Ina. I will tell Geralt to meet you there.”

“Wait – how do you intend to do this? By yourself?” Cahir stepped forwards, scrutinising Regis carefully. Regis looked at him.

“Let me worry about that.” He offered another tight-lipped smile. “You must trust me on this.”

“Out of the question! It is a suicide mission! Madness! I will go with you.”

Regis arched a brow at the man as Cahir strode forwards. He bore the pain in his arm admirably, but the young soldier could not fully mask the clenching of his teeth as he gripped his wound more tightly with his free hand.

“Given the extent of the injuries your fellow Nilfgaardians gave you, I think that would be extremely difficult in your current condition.”

Cahir flashed Regis a dark glare.

“They are no fellows of mine.” He winced again, but then sighed in defeat. Not even he could argue with Regis’ logic. “But… you may have a point.” He grit his teeth once more and swore softly – in Nilfgaardian, the barber-surgeon noted dryly.

Regis reached into the satchel he wore at his waist and beckoned for Cahir to remove his hand from his injury.

“I can tend to your wounds, but after that you and Milva must keep to the river and wait there.”

“What? If you think we’ll just—”

Regis cast a look at Milva, one that effectively silenced her the moment she saw the expression on his face.

“Please.”

Just like Cahir, she paused. She looked as if she wanted to argue, but the fire quickly died from her eyes. She sighed and nodded, though grudgingly. Regis’ eyes softened and he offered the two another grateful smile before taking Cahir’s proffered arm.

The dusk had steadily approached by the time Cahir’s injuries had been seen to, and the man studied the freshly wrapped bandages appreciatively. No one had said another word during this time, though Regis was keenly aware of the gazes his companions had kept on him as he had worked. Then he had stepped back, and without sparing a final glance back at them he turned and prepared to leave in the direction of the Temerian camp. There was nothing else he could do, after all. He knew what they wanted to ask him. He knew that he owed them answers, just as he owed Geralt answers for everything that had happened up until this moment.

And he would give those answers. But not right now. Now, in this moment, ensuring Geralt’s safety was his sole concern. He hoped that they understood.

He heard their renewed whispers when they thought him out of earshot. 

“Can you believe him?” Cahir muttered under his breath, sounding agitated. “I do not understand this. He cannot seriously expect to walk in there and get those friends of yours out _and_ unharmed.”

“I don’t believe a lot of things about him,” Milva admitted just as quietly. “First how he saved us at the attack on our campsite, then the horseshoes…” She sighed. “But if anyone can do it… he probably can.”

“What do you mean?”

“Geralt trusts him. That’s reason enough.”

Though he knew that they could not see his face, nor did they realise that Regis was well aware of their continued conversation, the barber-surgeon felt his lips pull into a small smile as he slipped back into the shadows of the trees. Milva’s words had affected him deeply.

He cast a glance up at the sky above, seeing the first wisps of clouds scattering across the surface of the moon that had now begun its slow climb. He sucked in a sharp breath, held it a moment, and then exhaled.

_Trust._

It was something important to him – a concept that until meeting the witcher he had never fully understood. But he only had to think back to the way that Geralt would so often meet his gaze and understand him so intimately when no words had been spoken to realise just how overwhelmingly important that concept was.

He only had to think back on the way the man saw him as an equal, a confidante, a friend… and perhaps even as something more; his chest tightened and he felt his slow heartbeat quicken. That night, in the camp, when they were both at their most vulnerable – when they had crossed that bridge that they had been walking for so long together and had at last drowned in the churning waters of ecstasy deep below… _that_ was where their trust had led them.

Not once had either of them thought that the other would lead him astray. So if Geralt still trusted him now, after all of this, then Regis would do everything in his power to not let him down. He could not. If he did…

He tried not to think of the consequences. He tried not to think of what else it would cost them.

He could not. _He could not._

Fortunately some instinctive, deep, dark part of himself knew intrinsically that Geralt would do the same for him, if their roles had been reversed. He felt himself grow calm in the face of this knowledge, and his fear cooled at last. He barely noticed it now. His thoughts grew still, and he closed his eyes for a moment. He pressed his lips together, and with a familiar thin smile forming on them he decided on his exact course of action.

Gazing once more back at the hill and the ruins of the fort in the far distance, Regis threw all caution to the wind and flew.


	12. Chapter 12

A calm wind gusted through the valley, and the low breeze carried with it the voices of the soldiers who sat around the campfire. Passing flasks of spirit back and forth, they raucously congratulated themselves on their victory at the Chotla. They were not the only men of their company to take delight in such a victory this night; throughout the ruins of Fort Armeria, all of those who were not on duty saw fit to celebrate until the dawn's light swept across the fields. They had good reason to – Nilfgaard's defeat that day had been imminent in the face of the Temerian army, and thanks to Marshal Vissegerd, Emhyr would be left with no choice but to lick his wounds like a flea-bitten dog.

The capture of two of the emperor's spies was also a matter of great debate that evening, and a subject that perhaps in and of itself was more of a reason to celebrate than the Temerian's successful efforts in halting the Black Ones in their tracks. And here, by the outermost boundaries of the fort where the forests gave nothing away in the shadows, the soldiers around the campfire continued to drink and laugh, fully intending to enjoy the night whilst reminiscing upon the damage that they had dealt to their enemies.

Another gust of wind drifted gently through the plains; the campfire guttered and the smoke billowed. Above them, ravens cawed and flew from the branches of trees to map their course along the moonlit sky, and yet, distracted as they were, the soldiers did not pay the phenomenon any mind. Drinks were again passed around, laughter again resounded through the night, and voices again talked over the sounds of the forest. Should anyone chance upon this group, it was likely that they could do so and remain unnoticed. 

However, the man who watched them did not intend to keep the element of surprise.

The ravens cawed once more from high above. The sound of a branch snapping close by echoed almost as loudly as the drunken revelries that were taking place. It was this that finally caught the attention of the sentry, who, unlike his comrades, remained relatively clear-headed. 

“Look lively, lads!” he hissed, interrupting his brothers-in-arms. He stood upright and tightened his hands around his bow as all eyes turned to him. “Something's out there.”

The silence that fell upon the group was absolute. The laughter ceased immediately, and in its place the sounds of the forest reigned. Gazing from one to the other, the soldiers grew grim in the face of the knowledge that their celebrations would be short-lived. Another branch snapped. The men scrambled to attention. 

“Who goes there?” The sentry trained his gaze towards the shadows. An officer drew his sword. The campfire's flames flickered again as they were caught once more in the wind. “Answer!”

They did not receive an immediate reply. The trees swayed in the breeze, their boughs creaking, and the shadows continued to remain still and betrayed no sign of any life that may have lain within. The men cast nervous glances at one another; a sweet herbal smell enveloped their senses, rich, heady, and seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. And yet the night gave away nothing.

Until something moved. 

“My apologies, gentlemen. The hour is late, but would you be willing to aid a man wearied by the road?”

Scattered gasps rang throughout the assembled group; hands reflexively tightened and then loosened upon weapons. Disbelief echoed clearly on every face as a lone figure slowly approached from the darkness – a figure that none of them had been expecting. Clad in sweeping black robes, the elderly looking man stepped into the light cast by the fire, allowing himself to be seen in full. His hands were raised to show that he was unarmed. He looked at each and every one of the soldiers in turn with eyes as black as the shadows from whence he had come, and an expectant smile crossed his pursed lips. Yet the most curious feature about this stranger was, perhaps, the pallor of his skin; a paleness that was only accentuated further by the long, grey hair that hung loosely past his shoulders.

In the wind that billowed once more through the clearing, his hair brushed against his wizened cheeks and hid his smile in full. The stranger continued to regard the men calmly, showing no fear in his dark eyes. The soldiers again cast wary glances at one another. 

“Who are you?” the sentry called out, ignoring the way that his voice trembled as he did. A chill permeated through him, though he could not understand why until those sharp black eyes focused on him and he unwittingly felt a shiver course down his spine. His hand tightened warningly around his bow, and his fingers raised slowly to the quiver upon his back.

The man offered a thin, placating smile and raised his hands higher. Under the sharp scrutiny of the soldiers, the stranger clearly knew that he was outnumbered and unevenly matched. He did not make any attempts to attack; he simply stood there and waited. 

“A traveller,” the man said, slowly and evenly. “And before that, a humble healer and surgeon. Forgive me, I did not mean to intrude upon your festivities.” He paused and swept his dark gaze once more over those gathered before him. Something flickered in his eyes; for a brief moment, his expression grew pained. “I am in need of help.”

His words gave the soldiers pause. He was well-spoken and his intent seemed honest enough; there was no lie in the look that he fixed them with. A tense silence gathered around them all, broken only by the faraway cawing of the ravens and the crickets that chirped in the night. The sentry turned to the officer beside him, whose sword had already begun to lower slowly by his side. He cleared his throat. 

“Sir? What should we do?”

The officer narrowed his eyes and addressed the stranger. 

“What help do you need?” 

The man turned his head and faced him. His smile faded immediately. 

“Two of my companions were taken,” he began, allowing each word to sink in before continuing, “by none other than your army after the Nilfgaardian's assault on the Chotla. As I understand it, and if I heard you correctly, you believe that they may be spies.”

Gasps erupted once again throughout the gathering of men that stood before the stranger, yet no one moved. The sentry felt his hands shake. He was cold.

The officer swallowed thickly and his hand twitched around the hilt of his sword. 

“How do you know about that?” he demanded. The stranger turned his attention fully upon him once again, and the officer's eyes noticeably widened to see the barely suppressed anger that brimmed within the depths of that obsidian stare. The change was immediate and frightening. And still no one moved. 

“Where are they being held?” the stranger asked quietly, his voice barely audible over the blowing wind. “Please, tell me.”

The officer's hand shook violently. Seeing this, the sentry tried to take a step back, but he found that he could not. He felt frozen in place, and that cold seeped into every breath, every fibre and every vein of his being. 

“S-sir!” He cast a fruitless glance towards his officer, who did not respond. A dull, metallic thud resounded in the air and echoed sharply in their ears as the man's sword dropped to the grass below them. The sentry felt his heart beat in a rapid staccato; the officer swayed upon his feet, and in his eyes was an empty, glassy gaze. 

“The marshal's tent,” the officer said, his words falling thickly from lips that did not want to move. His tone was uneven, unnatural. “Take the path furthest alongside the fort, hidden by the trees. The men will not see you there.”

The sentry grit his teeth, unable to fight back against the lethargy that sapped all strength from his limbs. The chill enveloped him in its frosty caress. His mind tried to grasp at the situation, he tried to make sense of it – why would his comrade reveal that information to this stranger? And, as his heartbeat pounded erratically within his ears until it was all that he could focus on, another thought came to the forefront of his sluggish mind, piercing his chest with an unease that felt even colder still: why was no one moving?

The stranger exhaled softly. His words almost became swallowed by the wind.

“Thank you,” he whispered. For a moment, just a moment, it almost appeared as if he was remorseful. A silent apology formed in his fathomless black eyes.

If the sentry had been able to will himself to speak, he would have cried aloud in that instant; he was powerless to do nothing but watch as his officer slumped heavily to the ground, as if the invisible tethers that had been holding him in place had been cut. One after the other, bodies fell, motionless, to the earth beside him as the rest of his company followed suit, and the sentry at long last realised that the cold that he had been feeling – that intense, paralysing cold – had been fear incarnate.

He saw black eyes turn to him. He looked deep into that gaze and for one brief, horrifying minute, he thought that he saw death staring right back at him. 

The lethargy swept in and claimed him whole, and his eyes, at long last, closed.

As he fell, the wind swept gently through the plains and the campfire's flames burned brightly, illuminating the immovable forms of the soldiers who slept a deep, dreamless sleep. The stranger exhaled softly once again and he turned his head away, tasting bitterness on his tongue. He felt drained and exhausted beyond all measure; repulsion for his actions shuddered through him, warring with the anger that he had felt rising within him when he had looked into their eyes. 

But now was not the time to think, or regret. Now was the time to act.

He could not falter.

His steps were silent as Regis left the soldiers where they lay. 

* 

The sentries paced restlessly outside their tent. It was distracting. 

Geralt had spent the better part of these latter hours in meditation, closing his eyes and slowing his breathing as he centred his focus and attempted to calm his rampantly wild thoughts. Dandelion had all but given up trying to while away the time by striking up conversation; he was as silent now as he had never been before.

The cold, too, had grown almost unbearable, just like the hunger that found itself gnawing at Geralt’s empty stomach.

Etcheverry had returned some time after Vissegerd had left, carrying with him a wooden tray laden with water and a foul slop of gruel. He had said not a word as the prisoners had begrudgingly eaten their pitiful fare, and when they had finished he had taken their empty bowls and cups and had withdrawn back into the camp outside. Geralt thought back on that meal now – if one could call it that – and given how his stomach growled inside him he wondered if that tasteless filth hadn’t been at all half bad. But he dismissed the thought almost immediately.

He needed to focus. He needed to remain calm. He needed to find something to turn his attention to before he grew into a rage with each hour that ticked past. So it was ironic, perhaps, that he found that sense of calm when his mind strayed to the one thing that he had been hoping to forget, at least for a little while longer.

But he had come to expect that.

As darkness blanketed them it was so easy to lose himself to the memories of that fateful night; he could, if he wanted to, recall exactly how warm Regis had felt against him, just as he remembered the exact taste of his lips as their mouths met. There had been more than one occasion since sitting here that Geralt had almost given in to those thoughts completely; he had tilted his head back and had allowed a silent sigh to escape him as he ran every memory over and over in his mind until he could think of nothing else.

It put them both in a very difficult position now, he knew this – Regis most likely did, too. Geralt had questions, questions that needed answering. How could he not? He recalled that sight in front of the crowds and the priest just as clearly as he recalled the feverish caress of their bodies the night prior. 

He frowned, stirring slowly from his meditative haze.

But was it really so bad now that he knew? Or strongly suspected at the very least? 

He did not have an immediate answer for that. He supposed it would depend entirely on Regis, and what he wished to say.

Dandelion mumbled something unintelligible under his breath. Geralt sighed, irritated by the sudden disruption to his thoughts. His friend had fallen into a fitful sleep some time ago. Ignoring him as best as he could, the witcher gave in and at last succumbed to the desires of his mind. There was no time like the present really, considering their future was not looking so certain.

Though, as he shifted his position a little so that he could relieve the cramp in his muscles, he still would have ultimately preferred it if the time had passed by more quickly – this waiting game would be the death of him.

Outside the sentinels seemed to grow bored with their duties, two of them starting to engage in low conversation and, from what the witcher could hear, returning to their earlier game of cards. Their voices provided a background hum as Geralt slowly began to lose himself to the memory of touches, heat and whispered words; he felt a painful pull of longing tug at him, and with a quiet groan he realised that he could not concentrate as much as he had been desperately hoping to.

Which was probably why he noticed when the sudden silence drew on for one minute too long.

He opened his eyes, hearing that silence echo heavily around him now. It appeared that their guard’s card game had drawn to a premature close.

He smiled thinly.

Looking in the direction of the tent’s entrance, he elbowed Dandelion sharply in the back to get him to wake up. The poet jerked, grunting and casting his eyes around the tent in a disoriented fashion. He was about to open his mouth when Geralt shushed him.

“Keep quiet.”

Dandelion was visibly confused but Geralt did not bother to elaborate. His eyes were only focused on the canvas that separated them from the world beyond; honing his senses, he could hear the sound of a body slumping down against the grass, followed by two others soon after. The air became filled with the sounds of their heavy breathing as sleep overcame the sentinels. Geralt narrowed his eyes further and gazed at the thin streams of moonlight that bled in-between the slits of the tent, where he also saw something dark moving beyond in the shadows: a formless, incorporeal shape. A ghostly mist. 

He waited patiently. And then he smelled it; herbs, spices, and a sweetness that was everything familiar and overwhelming all at once. 

The tent flaps rustled as something pulled at the ties from the outside, tugging the canvas away to reveal the first proper glimpse of the camp that the prisoners had seen since being captured. Geralt heard Dandelion gasp behind him, the man having no doubt noticed the unconscious figures of their guards splayed out on the ground directly in front of them.

Geralt paid him no mind. He only had eyes on one thing as the moonlight filtered into the tent and fell upon the dark figure that now approached. Black eyes found him unfailingly, and the witcher calmly met that piercing stare.

He felt a tension rise in his blood, warring with that familiar pulse of adrenaline. But he remained calm. Focused. And despite it all he was glad to see him again – more than he could say. Something in his face must have given away his thoughts as Regis returned the faint smile that Geralt offered him, and the barber-surgeon silently walked in.

“Regis? Is that really you?” Dandelion hissed as he tried to turn his head to see him better. He looked beside himself with relief. Regis cast him a look that silenced the poet immediately.

“Lower your voice, Dandelion,” he warned softly. “Time is of the essence.”

Geralt felt the heat from his body as Regis drew up in front of them and knelt down, his hands reaching for the bonds that had tied the pair to the tent pole. Geralt betrayed no inner conflict in his eyes as he waited, feeling Regis so close to him but still so far out of reach. Regis’ eyes found his once again, and Geralt saw the apology that the man could not utter in words. Not right here, not right now.

The shackles and ropes fell to the ground and Dandelion stifled the pleased groan that threatened to tear from his throat as he ripped his hands away and rubbed the ache from his wrists. He looked giddy with delight at his newfound freedom, and he leapt up to grab his belongings that had been stashed so carelessly in amongst the rest of the war contraband.

“I don’t know how you got here but we owe you one, my friend,” he whispered to the barber-surgeon, who had turned to Geralt’s bonds and was now slowly undoing them one by one. Regis broke his gaze away from Geralt’s and offered a small, tight-lipped smile in Dandelion’s direction.

“I’m sure there will be time for that later. Right now you must keep to the outskirts until you reach the river. The others already await you there with the horses.”

Dandelion’s eyes widened.

“You mean they’re safe? Oh, that’s—”

“Dandelion, do us a favour and check that no one else is on watch nearby,” Geralt said quietly, drawing Dandelion’s attention. The poet hesitated, looking uncertain for a moment at the request, but seeing the logic in it he nodded and slipped out of the tent and into the night beyond.

There was another brief moment of silence, one that grew almost stifling as Regis and Geralt watched him leave. Then, their eyes locking once more, Regis released the last of the ropes that tied Geralt’s wrists behind his back. Geralt flew forwards the instant his hands were free; Regis had already perceived his intentions, and as Geralt’s fingers clasped either side of Regis’ neck, Regis exhaled a shaken, desperate breath as he met him halfway and their lips crushed urgently together.

Geralt pressed into him, allowing Regis to help guide him up as he attempted to stand. Without breaking away he growled into that kiss and pulled the man closer to him, chest to chest as he dived into his touch and his warmth. Regis fisted his hands in Geralt’s hair, frantically matching the pace and the desperation – he felt his heart beat and his hands shake and he gave no resistance when Geralt plunged his tongue between his parted lips and found what it was that he had been searching for. He knew that Geralt knew. He would not hide it. Not now. Not anymore.

The revelation was bittersweet; Geralt now had all the confirmation that he needed. He carefully traced the edges of sharp teeth – too sharp for any normal man’s – and his grip tightened tenfold around his lover as he dropped his hands to Regis’ waist and dug his fingers in. His kisses then eased in their urgency, and he mouthed those firm lips with slower, deeper caresses until they were both left to pull hesitantly away, panting softly.

He allowed himself to press his brow to Regis’ own, and he took the time afforded him to gather his thoughts and cool his blood.

“We need to talk.”

Regis nodded, having expected Geralt to say that very thing.

“And we will. But not here. Not now.” He cupped Geralt’s cheek with one hand and slowly stepped back, allowing some distance between them. Geralt calmly watched him retreat, his eyes betraying no hint as to the turmoil he felt within. 

Regis glanced around, as if searching for something. His gaze honed in on Geralt’s swords and he grabbed them, passing them to the witcher who took them without a word. Neither made any comment as their hands touched over the steel and silver blades.

“How long until the guards wake up?”

Regis followed Geralt as the witcher took the lead, fastening his swords to his back and walking out into the silent army grounds. Geralt looked around and was greeted with the sight of multiple bodies lying upon the grass, reclining in varying stages of a deep, peaceful sleep; the sleep was no ordinary one, and Geralt, despite everything, found himself impressed by the sight. It wasn’t magic. It was something else. Something far older and far more powerful.

“Not long. The campfires are lit, and there are soldiers still about. You shall have to keep to the shadows. Cross over towards the Ina as soon as you’re able.”

Geralt nodded. He saw movement from the side and he turned to see Dandelion fast approaching.

“We might be able to make it if we hurry now,” the poet hissed, beckoning for the others to follow him. “Come on!”

Geralt felt Regis hesitating behind him. He turned around before the man could so much as open his mouth.

“Regis, are you coming with us?”

Regis met Geralt’s gaze, and Geralt felt the way those black eyes searched his. It was a silent challenge on Geralt’s part, one that Regis answered to with a nod that betrayed nothing. It was as he had said after all: time was of the essence. Until they escaped the army’s clutches they would need to put everything else aside for the time being.

“I am. Follow me, and keep close.”

Geralt nodded and allowed Regis to take the lead. Their eyes locked briefly again for one final moment before both broke their gazes. Geralt and Dandelion fell into step behind him in silence.

The camp was larger than Geralt had at first anticipated. Rows of tents stretched from the river’s banks to the forest in the north. In the near distance he could see the crumbling ruins of a long-abandoned fortress, from where the orange haze of a lit fire could be seen against the darkness. The sounds of drunken singing and carousing echoed from the middle of those ruins, alerting them to the presence of the other soldiers who had not been posted on guard duty that evening.

The moon rose high in the sky above, blanketing the world in a silver light. Dandelion sucked in a gasp when he saw the trail of sleeping bodies scattered to and fro around them leading towards the east, where they were now heading. It was clear to see what path Regis had taken to get to them. 

“Geralt, have you seen anything like this before?” he whispered urgently, trying to keep as quiet as he possibly could as he gazed fearfully up at the barber-surgeon guiding them silently through the night. “This isn’t a normal sleep…”

Geralt did not bother to lower his voice. He knew that Regis would hear whatever they said anyway.

“No. It’s not.” He kept his eyes on Regis’ figure.

“Is he a sorcerer?” Dandelion evidently did not notice that Geralt wasn’t paying him any attention.

“No. He isn’t.”

Regis turned his head; the gesture was mild enough that it would have gone unnoticed by anyone else if they hadn’t been watching him carefully. But Geralt saw the flicker of black eyes in his direction. Regis smiled his familiar tight-lipped smile; there was a distinct pain in it now.

Geralt was the first to break eye contact a heartbeat later, though some part of him regretted doing so. He pushed Dandelion forwards, quickly growing impatient with his friend’s nervous awe at the state of the soldiers they crept past. They made good time, creeping noiselessly past the tents, horses and soldiers both asleep and awake. Regis guided them swiftly and with purpose, his keen eyes seeking out paths that drew them further and further away from immediate danger. Geralt watched his back all the while, ever silent.

They had made it close enough to the camp’s edge when Regis suddenly drew them to a halt. In the shadows of the trees and out of sight of the campfires that had been built around the ruins where the revelries were being held, he raised his hand to stop them.

Geralt drew up to his side immediately. 

“What can you see?” he asked.

“Guards waiting in amongst the trees,” Regis said quietly. “They must have changed rotations as we were approaching.” His expression looked fearful; Geralt smiled grimly and lifted his hand to the hilt of his steel sword. He felt Regis watch him.

“Geralt, there are too many of them. I don't know if I can…” Regis broke off, looking torn between wanting to continue or not. Geralt nodded.

“I know.” He turned to the man beside him. “Go back to the others. Tell them to expect trouble.”

Regis paused, falling silent as he studied the witcher. Dandelion glanced nervously from one to the other.

“I sincerely hope it doesn’t come to that,” Regis said at length, slowly. Geralt chuckled. The sound was mirthless.

“We’ll see. Now go. Fly.”

Regis’ answering smile was just as grim; something flashed in his eyes and Geralt knew that it had been anguish. He hated that look, and he cursed himself for hating it. But he could not worry about that now.

He couldn't worry about any of this now.

Regis understood. Of course he did. So he nodded, spared one final, hesitant glance back at the witcher, and the last thing that Geralt saw was black eyes locked sadly upon him before Regis disappeared in a thick shroud of mist.

Dandelion stifled a yelp and clasped his hand to his mouth, but his voice still carried in the night air.

“What the — what was that?!”

Geralt did not look at him, instead remaining focused on the place where Regis had only just been standing. The sudden change had been so swift, so disorienting that he exhaled slowly, softly, and felt a great many things that he did not want to.

He turned away when he heard confused sounds coming from the guards nearby; one of them had heard Dandelion and was now walking towards them. Geralt could not find it within himself to be angry with his friend for giving them away. With how close the guards had been, it would have been a matter of time until they were noticed anyway. It was better to get this over with sooner rather than later.

“Do you see the horses over there?” Geralt asked, unsheathing his steel sword and lowering it by his side. He gestured to the mares that stood grazing upon a small patch of grass near the trees the soldiers had been gathered by. Dandelion, having already noticed the men drawing closer to them, promptly forgot his earlier shock and quickly nodded.

“We’re going to steal them.”

“Geralt—”

Geralt cut Dandelion’s protests off with a sharp glare, one that brooked no argument. The guards were almost upon them now. Their armoured boots echoed noisily in the night.

“Is anyone there? Show yourself!”

“Dandelion!” Geralt hissed, pushing his friend forwards. “Move it!”

“Halt! Who are you? _Halt!”_

They did not listen. Dandelion sprinted towards the horses, Geralt in hot pursuit. The guards noticed them fleeing and they rose their voices in angered shouts and screamed orders for their comrades to stop them.

“Sound the alarms! _Now!”_

“Dandelion, ride for the Ina!” Geralt yelled over the chaos as he leapt into the horse’s saddle; the mare neighed and bucked under the sudden strain of his weight, and Geralt quickly thrust his hand out and cast Axii upon the startled creature. The beast snorted, pawed the ground, and allowed herself to be steered under the witcher’s command as he urged her into a gallop that tore through the quickly stirring campsite.

The air grew frantic with the sudden uproar that surged through the camp – the soldiers awoke and grabbed their weapons, and horns were blown. The sound echoed across the valleys around them, and those who had been drinking by the ruins joined the fray as the Temerian army rallied to stop the fleeing men.

Dandelion yelped, panting breathlessly as he struggled to make his horse catch up. He had tripped on his way to mount it, and that single moment’s hesitation had been enough for a nearby archer to nock an arrow to his bow and take aim. He had fired, but had missed the poet’s head by a fair inch. Dandelion would not be so lucky next time. Geralt swore, having seen the display as he had looked back, and he beckoned with his hand for Dandelion to hurry up. Their mount’s hooves pounded and churned the earth. The camp’s borders were looming closer.

“Geralt!” Dandelion cried out, at last gaining on the witcher as the soldiers roared their battle cries. “We won’t make it!”

“We will!” Geralt yelled at him. “We have to!”

War dogs barked and howled, and Geralt grit his teeth as the army sent the hounds after them; they were quick, bloodlust in their eyes and fanged maws, and the horses grew panicked as the dogs leapt at their legs. Another arrow coursed through the air; Geralt swung his sword and parried it cleanly as it flew towards him.

He heard the startled cries of the archer who had taken aim, but Geralt paid him no mind. Blood pounded fitfully inside him; his heart beat quickly and he honed his senses into a razor sharp focus. He heard the screams, felt the ground shake, saw the chaos, tasted the fear; he took it all in until it was all that he knew.

That’s when he saw him. There, at the camp’s edge, drawing a long line of soldiers behind him to cut off their escape, was the one man he had wanted to avoid again at all costs. 

Marshal Vissegerd.

“Witcher!” He roared into the night, sword drawn and raised as Geralt and Dandelion fast approached. “You won’t get away so easily! I promised you that!”

Vissegerd gestured with his hand, and Geralt groaned in dismay as he saw the archers behind the marshal take aim and the infantrymen alongside them beginning to raise their shields. Geralt could parry one arrow, but against a whole rain of them he could do nothing. 

The bowstrings grew taut. The arrows quivered in the archer’s fingers. Geralt’s eyes widened and he turned to his friend.

“Dandelion, watch out!”

He ducked, pressing low to his mare’s neck as the twanging of bowstrings sang in the air around them – the arrows hailed down, puncturing the ground. The horses panicked, screamed and frothed at the mouths; Geralt felt his mount stumble as an arrowhead pierced her sharply in the flank.

But she galloped on, spurred by the Sign Geralt had cast on her earlier. He felt pain lance through him and wondered if he had been hit, too, and he grit his teeth so tightly that he tasted blood on his tongue. He heard a cry beside him but he could not pay it any mind; the soldiers grew wary, their formation faltering as the beasts galloped closer and closer. With a growl Geralt thrust his hand out and cast Aard at the ground by their feet and the shockwave sent them stumbling back off balance.

He tightened his legs around his mount, drew his body in, and she leaped over the disoriented infantry just as they scrambled upright – but by then he had cleared them and had torn off without a second glance back. Vissegerd screamed after him, calling his name and cursing him all in one breath, but the low, pained moan next to his ears drew Geralt’s attention to his friend. Fear stirred in his gut.

“Dandelion?”

Thanks to Geralt Dandelion had cleared the soldiers safely after him, but he was slumped low over the saddle. His hands gripped the reins of his horse loosely, and from here Geralt could see that the man had grown sickeningly pale.

He only needed to see the crimson rivulets of blood pooling from his friend’s brow to realise what had been the source of the pained cry he had heard. 

_“Shit!”_

Geralt reined his horse in, the mare belching steam from her nostrils and froth from her mouth, and he leaned over and pulled at the reins of Dandelion’s horse seeing as Dandelion could no longer steer it. It neighed in fright but Geralt acted quickly; urging his horse back into a gallop he guided both their mounts away from the campsite, even as he heard soldiers starting to follow their tracks on mounts of their own.

“Dandelion! Stay with me, damn it!”

He cast another fearful glance back at his friend; Dandelion’s head lolled and he mumbled incoherently. His eyes rolled back into his skull and he was teetering on the edge of consciousness. Geralt felt a blind panic grip him, intermingling with the burning pain that he felt in his right side, but he willed it away.

The forests grew denser around them the further east they travelled; Geralt urged the horses through the thick canopy of low hanging branches and boughs. They slipped into the shadows of the trees as they raced by the river’s edge, the moon’s light reflecting off the crystalline waters in a blinding fashion. He did not know if this would be enough to lose the army, but he had to hope. There was nothing else he could do, after all – hope may very well be the only thing that saw them through this night alive and returned safely to their awaiting companions.

Geralt’s jaw clenched as thoughts of Regis flew unbidden once again to the forefront of his mind.

The wind whipped at his face and his hair as they rode harshly on. Over time the sounds of their pursuers gradually faded away, and Geralt eased the horses into a brisk canter, glancing behind him to make sure that his ears had not deceived him. He could not see anything; the night was still and the forest was calm. The Yaruga’s waters rippled noisily beside them.

Dandelion lolled in his saddle again, the poet blinking his eyes rapidly as he fought the waves of nausea that were taking hold. His forehead continued to bleed slowly but Geralt could do nothing to help him. He told Dandelion to keep quiet and stay calm, and dared to pray that the final stretch of their journey would remain unimpeded.

Thankfully, as if by some blind stroke of fate or luck, it did.

They saw the Yaruga cross into the River Ina some half an hour later, where the trees grew the thickest. Geralt spurred the horses onto their final stretch, and as the early stirrings of dawn began to paint the sky in pearlescent shades of pinks and reds, he saw a familiar figure waiting for them under the sun’s morning light.

“Witcher!”

“Milva,” Geralt greeted her, dismounting quickly and pulling Dandelion down to the ground alongside him before their horses had even had so much as a chance to come to a proper halt. “Where’s Regis?”

“In the camp. When he came back alone we were worried. We – hang on, what happened?” The archer’s eyes widened when she saw the state they were both in, Dandelion panting heavily by Geralt’s shoulder as the witcher gripped his friend tightly to keep him from falling over.

“No time. Find him. Hurry.”

*****

He could not think of anything to say when he had returned.

It had been another unsettling experience, one that he dearly wished he would never have to live through again. He saw the looks in his companion’s eyes when he stepped out of the shadows with neither Geralt nor Dandelion beside him, and the crestfallen expressions he had been greeted with as he had explained the situation with difficulty had once again stirred the anguish that had weighed so heavily upon him since leaving the witcher at the mercy of the Temerian army.

Despite them both knowing full well that Geralt would manage, and that Regis exposing himself would only bring even greater trouble than they could afford, the barber-surgeon still felt that his flight constituted nothing more than an act of cowardice.

If it had been anything else – any other situation, any other time, any other place…

Regis felt bitterness once again stir in his chest and settle deep within his heart. He could not meet the gazes of his friends. So he had done the only thing that he could bear to do in that instant: he had turned his back, walked away, and succumbed to the maelstrom of his thoughts.

He felt their eyes burn into the back of his head, and as he stood watch by their makeshift camp’s boundaries, he had heard their whispers flicker intermittently back and forth. It was maddening, almost as maddening as the anxious pounding of their hearts – to which he heard his own heartbeat contribute just as maddeningly. Which is perhaps why he had done something then that he had never once done before, but had often noted that Geralt was fond of doing when he needed to think.

He began to pace.

It started gently at first; a simple walk to the tree line followed by a brief pause as Regis roamed his eyes over the valleys around them.

Then he had walked back, just as slowly. But feeling the first subtle pin pricks of irritation claw at the edges of his mind he had returned once again to the trees, and resumed the action once, twice, thrice more. He was not aware of the exact moment when his steps had quickened and he had taken up a certain rhythm as he walked out his agitation, but he did at last begin to understand the cathartic appeal of doing so.

Each pause by the trees conjured the image of Geralt’s face when he had told him to fly; each return to the camp stirred the dull ache of desperation he had felt when their lips met and Geralt had at last pieced it all together.

It was deeply, truly, utterly _maddening,_ and Regis felt that that madness would swallow him whole. That is, of course, if this overwhelming anxiety and this debilitating fear did not do so first.

He only vaguely recalled Milva announcing that she was going to keep watch. He only vaguely felt Cahir place an awkward hand on his shoulder in an attempt to reassure him that Geralt would return safely.

 _I know he will, but I should have done more,_ Regis had wanted to say. It was ironic, he then thought, that during the one time he should have spoken his mind he had found that he was entirely incapable of doing so.

He was painfully aware of each second that passed by as the night drew on; he felt the first stirrings of dawn around him and still Geralt had not returned. His pacing continued. No one said a word. He was beginning to wonder if it would in fact be better if the others resumed their whispers once more. It would have made for an excellent distraction – his thoughts were too loud. He wanted them to stop.

He smelled the blood before he heard the horses.

Lifting his head when he heard Milva’s cry, he knew and dreaded all too well what he would see upon rushing out to meet them. Not even the sound of Geralt’s familiarly brusque tone was enough to soothe his fears; his nostrils flared against the sweet scent that now sickened him to the very deepest, darkest, blackest pits of his being.

He felt panic grip him. A split second later and it would have consumed him instead.

“—Find him. Hurry.”

Regis was beside Milva in an instant, approaching quickly from the camp before he could so much as think clearly. He did not want to think. He wanted to act.

“I’m here, Geralt,” he said, drawing their eyes to him as he advanced and saved Milva the trouble of answering Geralt’s harsh demand. He was quick to assess the situation, and what he saw did indeed make his blood run cold. 

Geralt grunted as Dandelion slipped in his grasp; he bit his lip as he pushed the man forwards. He had seen the fear in Regis’ expression, and he had seen the way those coal-black eyes widened tenfold at the sight they made.

“Geralt…” His name fell once again in a hoarse whisper from those pale lips, and Geralt looked down to where Regis was gazing, horror-struck. He blinked as he saw the dark crimson blood that pooled at his side through his torn shirt, under his ribs.

_So that’s where I got hit._

He had been wondering about that. It wasn’t a deep wound, but it had been irritating him the longer he had been in the saddle. And now that they had, for the moment, escaped Vissegerd’s men, Geralt felt the pain more keenly now that he was on his own two feet. But now was not the time to worry about this. Lifting his head again, that look on Regis’ face was enough to ground him back to reality, to make him push away any and all thoughts that weren’t related to the immediate matter at hand.

“Milva, take our horses,” Geralt grunted. The archer complied, sparing Geralt and Dandelion an uncertain glance as she did so. The witcher saw the concern in her steely gaze, and he felt a little better for it. He offered her a thin smile, trying to remain as reassuring as he possibly could given the current circumstance.

He turned back to Regis only when she and the horses were gone. He exhaled sharply and almost stumbled under the weight of his friend wrapped around him. Regis was quick to reach outwards, steadying them both with a careful hand. Geralt couldn’t look at him. He could not look into his eyes. Not now. 

“Regis…” Geralt groaned faintly and slipped Dandelion’s arm off his neck, helping his friend steady himself by Regis’ side. “Get him cleaned up. He took a blow to the head.”

Regis nodded, and once again his eyes became an unreadable mask. There was nothing he could say – not here, not now, not yet. They both knew that. But he sucked in a soft breath and pressed his hand to Geralt’s side, doing his best to stop the bleeding as much as he could.

“Geralt, you should—”

Geralt wrapped his hand around Regis’ own, pressing the man’s palm closer against the injury. He found the warmth preferable to the incessant stinging; the touch and the closeness, too. He cussed under his breath and bowed his head.

_Not the time._

Their brows were almost touching. The heat from Regis’ body was all too real, all too warm. Geralt heard each hitch of breath, each anxious beat of the man’s too-slow heart… if he looked up now… 

“Take him. Please.”

He felt Regis nod again, and this time they both exhaled sharply as Geralt dropped his hand and Regis withdrew from him. He tried to ignore the sight of his blood glistening on Regis’ fingers. Regis, to his credit, said nothing and gave nothing away in his black eyes.

“Come along, Dandelion,” Regis murmured softly, guiding Dandelion along with him as he walked away from the witcher with the poet in tow. Dandelion groaned; he had regained consciousness now and was blinking rapidly and taking in their surroundings.

Geralt followed silently, once again feeling too many things he did not want to, and wanting to say a great many more.

Each step back to the camp rocketed pain though his side, and Geralt wondered if his wound wasn’t as superficial as he had believed it to be. He shoved away any and all attempts made to help him by both Milva and Cahir. Geralt did not even bat an eye when he had seen the Nilfgaardian waiting by the tents – he had known, after all, that the young man would have caught up to them no matter what. He rooted around in Roach’s saddlebags, pleased to see that his mare still remained with them, and he pulled out a flask of left-over Swallow. He would need to prepare some more of the decoction when the next chance arose. His supplies were running low.

Thankfully he had enough left for a solid mouthful, and he downed the vile tasting liquid and threw away the empty flask into the bushes. Feeling the potion’s restorative effects take root to ease the slow-burning pain in his side, he then slumped down onto the nearest tree stump, groaned, and fixed his eyes on the scene before him.

As Regis helped Dandelion sit down, and as the barber-surgeon opened his satchel and brought forth an assortment of bandages, ointments and phials, Geralt narrowed his eyes and watched and waited.

He used the time to think and war with the dark thoughts that fought for dominance in his head.

“Witcher.” Geralt grunted faintly at Cahir’s presence by his side. The man cleared his throat awkwardly. Geralt wasn’t paying attention. “I wanted to apologise for not being able to find you sooner.”

Regis was wiping away the blood from Dandelion’s brow. He then dipped a fresh cloth into some disinfectant.

“I’m dying…” Dandelion whimpered.

“No, you aren’t,” Regis said quietly. “Though you were quite fortunate to have avoided any further injury. Stay still a moment, Dandelion. I’m going to clean the wound. This may sting a little.”

Dandelion hissed and jerked away. Regis kept a firm hand on his shoulder and waited until the man had calmed down again before continuing.

Geralt tilted his head in Cahir’s direction.

“Overheard some men talking in that Temerian camp. Apparently they wouldn’t’ve known Nilfgaard was attacking if they hadn’t found four of their men dead, first.”

Cahir uttered an uncomfortable sounding laugh.

“They took me by surprise.”

Geralt nodded. He had nothing more to say. Dandelion yelped as Regis pulled back and withdrew some needles and thread from his medical bag. Seeing the panic rise in Dandelion’s eyes, Regis offered a small reassuring smile.

“I shall have to add a few stitches,” he explained gently. “It won’t take but a moment.”

The minutes ticked by slowly, with the silence broken intermittently by Dandelion’s occasional hissing and groaning. Geralt continued to watch, knowing full well that Regis was all too aware of his eyes upon him as the witcher studied him carefully. Regis’ fingers moved with expert precision as he saw to Dandelion’s wounds, and his expression was carefully guarded; his black eyes were narrowed in concentration as he wrapped a bandage around Dandelion’s head, and when he had at last done as much as he was able to, he leaned in to fasten the gauze in place. 

“There you are,” he smiled. “You should recover quickly in no time at all.” His eyes then flickered back up to the witcher’s seated form, and Geralt knew then that Regis had read the turmoil on his face. A saddened, knowing smile pulled at the barber-surgeon’s lips, and Geralt hated that look as much as he hated the realisation of what was to come. “And now that that’s done… Geralt, I’m all yours.”

Geralt did not know whether it was due to the exact way the sunlight shone upon their campsite and illuminated their bodies in that moment, or whether it was because the pain in his side coupled with all the horrors of the past night had at last caught up to him and tilted him finally towards the breaking point – or even if, as he suspected was most likely, it was something far simpler, something that he had always known yet until now had stubbornly chosen to ignore… whatever the reason for it was, he looked at Regis. Really, truly _looked._

And in the sun’s light that shone down on his pale face as he stood slowly and searched Geralt’s eyes just as Geralt searched his, the witcher saw first that Regis did not cast a shadow, and second that in that man’s anguished smile there lay two rows of pointed, sharpened fangs in place of teeth.

His mind dashed back to the camp and to the tent. He felt a violent spike of every emotion that he hated surge through him. He did not even know what he was truly doing until he found himself standing up, golden eyes blazing.

“Move away,” he snapped at Milva, even as he continued to stare into the black pits of Regis’ saddened eyes. Milva looked up from where she had just been about to help Dandelion stand, and she and the poet froze as they looked from the witcher to the barber-surgeon. Even Cahir paused where he stood, reading the tension in the air and taking a cautious step back.

Something flashed silver in the corner of his eyes; Geralt felt a weight in his hand and it wasn’t until the sharpened tip of his sword rested against the column of Regis’ bared throat that he realised he had drawn his weapon upon the man that he had trusted above all others.

Regis simply stood there, looking utterly resigned and at peace. He did not fight back. He did not even wince. The silver pressed against his skin and still he remained patient as he gazed into the eyes of the man who had taught him what trust was. He smiled again, though it was clearly forced. His eyes carried within them a lifetime of pain.

“Go on,” he said calmly, staring long into Geralt’s piercing gaze as time stopped around them. “Thrust it in.”


	13. Chapter 13

To the untrained eye Geralt’s hold was tight on his sword as he gripped its hilt and held it out. The blade appeared still, unwavering. He was aware of everything in that moment; Dandelion whimpering into his bandages, Milva tensing where she stood with an arrow nocked on her bow, and Cahir – the Nilfgaardian who was not a Nilfgaardian – pacing restlessly to and fro, trying to make sense of it all.

Geralt also heard the uneven beats of that too-slow heart. He heard how his own heart pounded anxiously in return. 

“Geralt, what are you doing?” Dandelion stammered uncertainly. Geralt did not look at him.

“He is doing what he thinks is best,” Regis answered for him, and Geralt hated the understanding he heard in his voice. Of all the times for Regis to understand him like no other, this was the one time when Geralt wished that he could not.

To the untrained eye his sword never wavered. But to him and Regis both, they knew that Geralt’s hand was shaking.

“After all,” and here pain once again lanced through Regis’ eyes – an ugly, self-loathing type of pain that did not look right on his face, “I am a monster.”

Someone gasped nearby; Geralt did not care to know who it was. He felt more than one pair of eyes on him in the silence that echoed loudly following Regis' fateful words. He was surprised his voice remained calm when he at last spoke. His tongue felt dry in his mouth.

“I’ve met a few of your lesser cousins over the years,” he began slowly, quietly – announcing to the others what they would need to hear and know from now on. “But even compared to them you’re something else. There’s more to you higher vampires than meets the eye. Pretty exceptional, I’d say. Especially you, Regis.”

Regis’ mouth twitched into a bitter mockery of a smile.

“You flatter me, Geralt. Have you met many of my kind?”

Geralt echoed that smile.

“No. You’re the first.”

“V-vampire…?” Dandelion stumbled over the word. The panicked sound of his voice acted like a catalyst; in that moment, the tethers that seemed to keep Geralt’s and Regis’ eyes firmly locked on one another broke, and they, as one, exhaled the breaths that neither knew they had been holding. They looked away to find Dandelion gaping wide at the barber-surgeon.

Both Milva and Cahir were less vocal, but they did not seem surprised; their eyes were fixed on the ground where Regis’ shadow should have been. Their expressions were grim. 

“Witcher, that vampire that supposedly threatened the villagers—”

“No,” Geralt all but growled. Milva stared at him as he interrupted her, his eyes trained once again on Regis' face. Now that he had at last looked properly into those penetrating eyes, the witcher did not want to look away. Not yet. Not until he heard what Regis wanted to say. “It wasn’t him. He was with me.”

“Oh.” The archer paused, trailing off as she glanced from one to the other. Then her eyes slowly widened, and Geralt knew that by saying those words he had admitted something else that day – something that Milva had been quick to pick up on where perhaps no others had. Her near-silent whisper confirmed what he feared: _“… Oh.”_

Cahir nodded once to himself, and out of the corner of his line of sight Geralt saw that the man was quick to follow Milva’s train of thought as he gazed knowingly at the witcher and vampire both. Geralt could not find it within himself to care.

_Let them know everything._

“Leave us,” he said firmly. He continued to watch Regis’ face and waited. Regis calmly stared back at him with a maelstrom of emotion in his coal-black eyes. Geralt could not even begin to name what he saw there.

He heard the hesitation of his companions around him and Geralt grit his teeth in impatience. Thankfully, however, they moved quickly after that; Cahir seemed to sense as Milva did that this was a conversation that was not meant for their ears. Milva pulled Dandelion away, and the trio left the clearing where they had made their camp, allowing that first modicum of calm to break through the tension that enshrouded the two who still remained.

No sooner had he heard them leave had Geralt felt his façade crack, break away and shatter around him; he groaned softly and fixed pleading eyes on the man – no, _vampire_ – and pulled his sword back. He sheathed it swiftly and without comment. Regis exhaled a sharp breath and closed his eyes. Geralt had not pressed the blade with any considerable degree of force against the vampire's throat, but even so, the witcher tried to ignore the thin line of red that was left against that expanse of pale skin – an unsightly mark of reddened flesh which, even as he watched, smoothed and healed over as if it had never been there to begin with.

There was a heavy silence for a moment. Geralt was eventually the one to break it. 

“Damn it,” he muttered, more to himself at first. Then, as he pressed a hand to his brow and began to pace back and forth, he cussed sharply and glared back at the man – _vampire_ – who remained watching him sadly. _“Damn it,_ Regis!”

If Regis was going to make a comment, he chose not to. Perhaps that was for the best, Geralt thought to himself. He did not know what he would do otherwise. There was a chasm between them, and he didn’t know how to cross it. He sighed and finally stopped pacing.

“I know I told you I wouldn’t pry,” he eventually settled on saying. His words fell with difficulty from his lips. “But why…?” he sighed. “You could have lied about it, and you didn’t even do _that.”_

That was what confused him the most, and in his confusion, Geralt did not care for the shaking tones of desperation that bled through into his voice. 

_“Why?”_

He was having trouble articulating his thoughts, but he knew that Regis would understand. How else _could_ he ask why Regis had never tried to hide from him?

Finally Geralt forced himself to meet that gaze again. He hated the pain he saw there. He hated it so much it hurt.

“What would that have accomplished?” Regis asked softly. He searched Geralt’s eyes and he, too, loathed the pain that he had caused him. “You would have found out sooner or later. Need I remind you that you are a witcher, Geralt? A professional monster slayer?” He smiled bitterly. “I saw no reason to lie to you. Hiding my true nature from you would have only delayed the inevitable, not prevented it.”

Geralt sighed. Then nodded. He saw the truth in those words, he could not deny it. He heard movement and lifted his head again to see Regis preparing to walk towards the water’s edge. The vampire tilted his head slightly, keeping Geralt within view as he turned his back. They both knew that Geralt could draw his sword on him again right there, if he so wished. Regis had placed himself in a vulnerable position, perhaps entirely on purpose.

But they also both knew that Geralt would not make that decision.

“Are you angry with me?”

Geralt considered the question a moment – really, truly considered. He looked at Regis and looked at the distance between them. He thought back on everything that had brought them to this moment together; each word spoken, each touch shared, each caress that dared bring them far closer to one another than either of them had a right to be – everything that they had trusted about each other, and everything that had felt so _certain._

He sighed.

“No.” He wasn’t. “No, I’m not.”

Surprise flickered briefly across Regis’ eyes, but the expression was soon replaced with anguished relief. It was some small comfort to him for Geralt to accept his actions, the witcher knew. He could still give Regis that, at least. He approached the riverbank and stood alongside the vampire. Neither moved as they gazed quietly at the rippling waves.

“I’m angry with myself,” Geralt admitted. He felt those black eyes on him, scrutinising him carefully. He sighed again. “I knew – a long time ago. But I kept pushing it out of my mind... thought that maybe I could… forget everything if I just ignored the facts in front of me.”

It wasn’t the best thing he could have done, and he wasn’t proud to admit it. Regis simply nodded.

“An understandable action to take, given the circumstances,” he smiled faintly. “I don’t blame you.”

For some reason those words meant more to Geralt in that moment than he could say.

“Thanks.”

Across the riverbank a lone deer stooped to drink from the water’s edge.

“You said you didn't see the point in lying to me. How did you know I’d trust you?” That question carried a heavy weight to it – Geralt knew this, as did Regis. Yet it was a question that had been on Geralt’s mind for some time, even before that night's fated events, and he wanted to know the answer to it now. He turned to face the vampire beside him.

Regis tilted his head back and sighed softly, closing his eyes against the warm sunlight that caressed his face. Geralt, despite everything, found it a calming sight – so real, so _human_ – that he could see how Regis had managed to convince them all. He admired Regis for that; he would likely not stop admiring him despite this abyss that had opened up between them. That had become a cold, hard fact.

“I didn’t.” Regis smiled thinly and opened his eyes again. “If I’m to be entirely candid with you, it was you, Geralt, who helped me realise what trust was.” When Geralt was silent following that admission, Regis at last faced him again. His expression remained calm and collected, though his eyes betrayed a deeper melancholy that lay within. “I never would have opened up to you in the way that I had if you hadn’t first looked at me and saw someone beyond a simple healer and surgeon. You have a way of viewing and understanding the world around you with an eye that leaves no detail ignored.” He chuckled faintly. “I was fascinated by you. I still am...” 

Regis paused, and Geralt felt a small smile pull at his lips at those words. Soon, a thoughtful gaze replaced that melancholic expression in the vampire’s eyes.

“It became easier after that,” he admitted quietly. “To give a piece of myself away every time we conversed, until there was nothing left. And that is something I have never once done before in my immeasurably long count of years.”

“What made you want to do it?” Geralt asked. Regis gazed at the silver wolf’s head around Geralt’s neck. His smile slowly widened – not into that usual tight-lipped smile that Geralt had become so used to seeing, but one that showed his sharpened fangs in full.

“When you decided to abandon all caution and stopped looking at your medallion.”

Geralt uttered a short laugh. He joined Regis in looking down at the medallion in question: it remained still and unmoving, as he knew it would.

“Pretty early on then,” he mused. He could not rightly recall when he had no longer expected a tremble, a sign, something, _anything._ But it was a long time ago, he knew that much. Regis’ smile remained wide on his lips; Geralt looked at him and found he wasn’t concerned by what would surely be to others an unnerving sight.

Then, slowly, the look in Regis’ eyes changed. Once again his expression grew pained. Geralt was reminded of a time when Milva had said that Regis had carried a weight on his shoulders; the witcher felt that now he was beginning to see just exactly what that weight was.

“I wanted to tell you,” Regis began, and his words faltered on his pale lips. He swallowed thickly and pushed himself to continue. “Geralt, you cannot even begin to imagine how many times I wanted to explain, to confess…”

“Why didn’t you?” Geralt asked quietly, though he suspected that he already knew the answer. Regis sighed heavily.

“Because I am a coward.” The vampire’s tone was bitter; as bitter as Geralt had ever heard it before. His eyes darkened tenfold. “I thought I was beyond that, but whenever I thought about what you would say or do… whenever I thought of the pain it would cause you… I suppose I too felt it would be easier to just… ignore everything and forget. If only for a moment.” Regis sighed again, bringing a hand to his brow and rubbing it. “Fear is an excellent motivator, as they say.”

“It can be,” Geralt agreed. He suspicions had been proven correct.

Regis’ smile was bitter to match the tone of his voice. He shook his head and his long grey locks cast his face in shadow. 

“But, alas, there are times when even I must stop fleeing and make a stand. I’ve made too many past mistakes. I didn’t want this to be yet another.” He regarded the river’s surface carefully. The deer had long since moved off.

Then, when Regis next spoke, his voice was so low that even Geralt had to strain his ears to catch his words.

“I’m old, Geralt. Very old. I’ve lived too long and regretted too much, and I have never wanted anything more than to face these fears at long last and say to them that I am very tired, and fuck it all.”

Geralt did not say anything for a long time. He regarded the vampire carefully, his face free of the surprise he otherwise would have felt at hearing something as crass as that fall from Regis’ lips. He looked back out at the water.

“I know how that feels.”

Regis nodded.

“Yes, I believe you would. After all,” he locked his black eyes on Geralt’s once again, “no one else could ever understand me the way you do. Thank you.”

Geralt had lost count of how many times he had thought the same thing about Regis. It was ironic, he thought, everything about them and this very moment. Given any other time, any other place, any other situation, maybe Geralt would have found it amusing. He nodded, too, not knowing what else he could say – but perhaps he did not need to say anything at all. As if sensing his thoughts, Regis surprised Geralt by suddenly giving a short, dry laugh.

“A witcher and a vampire…” Regis trailed off, chuckling again as he sighed once more and shook his head. “What strange bedfellows we most certainly make.”

The comment pulled an answering chuckle from Geralt’s throat. He could not fault the logic – or the irony – in the slightest.

“Turns out we’re just as bad as each other.”

“I couldn’t have put it better myself.”

A long silence settled over the pair. The river’s rhythmic waves made for a good distraction. But, as Regis had said, there would come a time when one would have to stop running. And it so happened that it was Regis who once again made that first step in doing so. Geralt thought that Regis had far more courage than he gave himself credit for – that was yet another thing that he admired about him.

“So what happens now, Geralt?”

Geralt stirred from his reverie. He blinked, looking back into Regis’ expressive black eyes. The vampire waited patiently for an answer to his question.

“What do you mean?”

Regis arched a brow and fixed Geralt with a mildly incredulous stare. He knew that Geralt knew exactly what he was referring to, but he humoured the witcher regardless. This was one of those things that would be much easier to address aloud, after all.

“You know everything now. There are no more secrets to hide, no more regret-laden truths that have kept us silent for so long. How do we approach one another? How do we attempt to salvage the remnants of… _this_ … that lies between us?” He gestured to them both, indicating the metaphorical – and perhaps quite literal – chasm that separated them from each other.

Regis offered a broken, sombre smile.

“You are, after all, a monster slayer. How do you look at a creature such as me knowing what you now do?”

Geralt’s eyes sharpened and he turned on Regis before the vampire could so much as voice any further thought to those words.

“Regis, you’re not—”

“Please, Geralt. I have no illusions of what I am.” Regis’ tone was firm, and his eyes grew serious as he gazed at the man before him. “It’s a witcher’s lot in life to earn their keep eliminating the world of all the fiends that walk it, ergo it would only be natural for you to do the same here. Thus I find myself curious to know: just how high would you value the price on my head?” 

Geralt betrayed no hint as to how deeply those words cut him inside. He remembered only far too well a night in a cave a lifetime ago, when it had been nothing but himself and Regis and the dying flames of their campfire to hear them:

_“And what about monsters?”_

_“What about them?”_

_“Are they not part of the world, too? What would you say about those creatures you hunt for the coin to use on your next meal? I imagine the silver sword is not just for show.”_

Geralt felt a hollow ache in his chest, one that almost burned the longer they stood here together and the longer he refused to immediately answer. Everything about that fateful evening at last made sense – everything that Geralt had been wondering since first hearing those weighted questions fall from Regis' lips. He understood why Regis had needed to know. He understood why Regis needed to hear it again, now. His hand twitched by his side. He felt the phantom weight of his silver sword in his empty fingers. 

He tried not to think of how he had almost turned on him. He tried not to think of what more he would have cost them. 

“You really think I’d do that?” he asked eventually, at length. His voice was hoarse. Regis offered that same broken, sombre smile.

“I think that it is still dangerous for me to dare to hope.” He did not explain further, but he did not need to. Geralt knew what Regis was referring to: he, like Geralt himself, was powerless to do anything but wait and see what would happen next. Everything hung on what Geralt chose to say. It was ironic – Geralt felt much the same when he gazed at the vampire before him. It was a responsibility that neither of them wanted. 

Geralt was quiet for a long time.

“There’s no price high enough,” he admitted eventually. Regis almost looked impressed, though Geralt saw the hint of relief that crossed over the vampire’s pale face soon after.

“I see.”

Geralt turned his back and took two steps forward, away from the riverbank, and away from the vampire. He was aware that the distance between them grew further with each and every step.

“Something tells me even if I did take that contract, I wouldn’t be able to complete it.” He paused, looking over his shoulder at Regis behind him. “It wouldn’t be so simple going after someone like you, would it?”

Regis’ lips pressed into a thin, knowing smile. This time he did not show his teeth.

“No, it wouldn’t.”

He did not say it to goad Geralt. In fact, as Geralt studied his face, he saw that Regis had only told him what was clear, irrefutable fact. The witcher nodded. It was again as he had suspected.

“And I suppose if I told you to leave, you wouldn’t?”

Regis’ eyes softened and he took a step forwards. That distance closed, ever so slightly.

“I’m afraid Dandelion is still injured,” Regis said gently. “He needs help changing the bandages at least for another few days.” His gaze then dropped to Geralt’s side, and Geralt saw the white-hot pain that lanced through those black eyes. “And there is of course the matter of your own wounds…” Regis met Geralt’s face again, slowly. There were many things he wanted to say, Geralt knew.

But just as before, whether Regis said them or not depended entirely on what Geralt did next. 

“And what’s the real reason?” Geralt’s question weighed heavily between them, and as he gazed into the vampire’s eyes, he felt like he saw everything. Regis’ expression grew pleading, and a millennia’s worth of emotion stirred in the obsidian depths of his gaze. He swallowed thickly, exhaled a sharp breath, and without a moment’s further hesitation he gave in.

“It’s… something more.”

This time neither of them looked away. Geralt gave another short nod – that had also been just what he had suspected. He did not tell Regis that those words had confirmed exactly what he had been wanting to hear, and exactly what he himself felt; he knew that one look into his eyes would be all that Regis would need to understand.

And he did. Geralt saw the way Regis froze, and how a lingering, longing hope dared to flicker behind the solemn gaze on his face as they stood there, witcher and vampire together on opposite sides of that abyss that had now begun to slowly mend itself and heal.

Geralt considered him for a moment before casting a thoughtful gaze back out at the water’s edge.

“All right then.”

A beat of silence passed.

“But you’re wrong about one thing,” Geralt continued eventually, taking a step back to close that distance even further. Regis watched him patiently all the while, though his hesitation remained palpable. Geralt almost felt the heat radiating off him in waves as he drew closer to the vampire’s side once again. “The price is too damn high not because I’d ever consider taking a contract on your head, Regis – but because I’d never do it to begin with. It’s not even a possibility. At all.”

He felt those eyes bore into him.

“… Are you certain, Geralt?”

“That this is the best idea?” Geralt finished off for him, seeing Regis nod once from the corner of his eye. He thought about it, long and hard. And he came to his decision. “Never been more certain in my life.”

That hesitation faded from Regis’ face, and this time the vampire did nothing to hide the relief that overcame him. Geralt allowed a small smile; that was another thing he could still do for Regis, at least. He stepped closer, one final, single step, and they stood almost shoulder to shoulder as they had many times before.

“Thank you,” Regis whispered. “But I have to ask… why?”

That was another good question. Geralt, at last having enough of staring at the water’s calm surface, looked back at Regis and gave him his undivided attention.

“It’s like you said earlier,” he said slowly. He sighed. “I’m old and tired.” _Of the pretending, the pain._ He met those black eyes and wanted to drown. Regis’ lips twitched into a faint smile, one that did not hide his fangs; he knew exactly what was going through Geralt’s head. It made it easier, Geralt realised. He truly hated words sometimes.

He took another step forwards and reached out. 

_Fuck it all._

He did not regret it – that was something he had known since the very beginning. He did not regret it, and he never would. So as he saw the look in Regis’ eyes when he leaned in, he had never felt more right in his decision. When their lips met and the warmth enveloped him, something tore at Geralt’s chest and screamed that nothing had ever felt more _real_.

It was a slow, single kiss at first – an admission of all the things that they could not say aloud. Then Geralt felt long hands gently caress his jaw, his neck, and then fist tightly in his hair and hold onto him. He lunged in and answered Regis’ silent plea. As he wound his hands firmly around Regis’ waist, holding the vampire even closer to him as their kiss grew deeper still, Geralt felt his teeth connect with fangs as their mouths crushed more insistently together. He did not care.

Just as Regis did, he felt relief.

When they slowly parted, their breaths and heartbeats uneven as they drew back, Geralt pressed his palm to Regis’ neck and held his eyes a moment longer. He was pleased to see that no sign of that earlier pain remained in his face; if anything, Regis looked as calm as Geralt himself now felt. Wordless understanding passed between them in that moment, and though it was with some noticeable degree of effort and regret on both their parts, they drew away from each other for good and walked away from the riverbank. The others still remained by the campsite, and they had kept them waiting for long enough.

And though they remained silent, this time when both witcher and vampire walked together, it was with both of them feeling lighter of heart than they had felt in an age.

*****

It had been one thing to talk in private about Regis’ true nature with nothing but the river to hear them, but to do so in front of the others where more than one ear was cocked and awaiting an explanation had been another matter entirely. They had arrived to see Milva pacing restlessly in wait in the shadows. Cahir was standing guard and keeping an eye on their surroundings. Dandelion had a hand to his brow and every so often he emitted an occasional groan, but he was thankfully more lucid than he had been prior.

“Witcher,” Milva greeted again when she saw Geralt approach. She looked at Regis beside him and offered a single nod, looking pleased. “So he has some sense left in him after all. We were worried he’d drive you away – he has the tendency to do that.”

Geralt looked at her, not wanting to rise to the insult he heard in her voice. He knew that she had a point, however; one glance at Cahir was all it took for him to see how considerably worse off they would all be if he had continued avoiding the Nilfgaardian’s aid earlier on. He did not want to think of what would have happened if he had attempted to drive Regis off in the same way. 

“Geralt did not act without reason,” Regis said calmly, easing a placating smile onto his lips as he gazed at them all. “But I see that you all have questions, and I wish to give you answers – answers you rightly deserve, and should have gotten from the very start.”

“We have time,” Cahir said as he nodded to the tree line. “There has not been any sign of pursuit yet.” He looked at Geralt. “Whatever route you took to get here, you chose it well.”

Geralt sat himself down by an upturned rock and stared deeply into the dying embers of the small fire that his companions had previously lit. He could still feel the fading flickers of its warmth.

“Thank Regis,” he said. “He helped us in more ways than one.”

He felt black eyes on him and he smiled faintly under their rapt attention. Adrenaline pulsed gently and lazily inside of him. He had missed that feeling. He felt the moment that gaze slowly left him, and he exhaled a soft breath as he waited. 

He kept silent and listened as Regis spoke, and in the time that followed, the company learned all about the mysterious barber-surgeon who at long last remained no mystery to them anymore: Emiel Regis Rohellec Terzieff-Godefroy, a higher vampire, who by his own reckoning had walked this earth for four hundred and twenty eight long years. He told them of his past and explained to them a great deal: how he had, in his youth, overindulged on human blood and how he had, after suffering punishment at human hands, vowed to himself to break away the tethers of addiction that had bound him for so long. Geralt recalled that time, so long ago, when Regis had first told him the story; he still remembered those words that had been said:

_“Was it fisstech?”_

_“No. Something far worse.”_

He gazed at the vampire and felt at long last all the final pieces of that puzzle snap into place.

It was clear that some of their company were more accepting than others, however; Milva, though initially wary, listened attentively as Regis then explained how he had come to take up the position of a rural healer in Dillingen, and Cahir remained impassive as he weighed each word spoken. Dandelion, however, grew noticeably uncomfortable, and there came a moment where he could not keep quiet any longer.

“But… you’re a _vampire_. How can you swear off blood? How can you stick to treating the sick and injured when they’re—”

“Dandelion,” Geralt interrupted, drawing his friend’s attention to him, “shut up and pay attention. Listen to him.” He kept his eyes on Regis’ own, and Regis’ returning gaze on the witcher never once wavered. The vampire chuckled faintly, his lips slipping into a thankful smile, and Geralt felt that Regis took strength from his unspoken support; his words came easier, and he shook off Dandelion’s concerns with relative ease.

It was trust, Geralt knew. Just as Regis had first come to trust Geralt, now he was extending that trust to those others around them. It would be a slow, awkward journey – Dandelion’s fears would not be fully assuaged by the end of the night, and Geralt knew just as Regis did that as with all things trust took time – but it was a start.

And Geralt was glad to see the weight of the world finally fall from Regis’ shoulders.

No further sign of the Temerian army had been found whilst they listened, and when all was said and done and everything laid bare before them, a silence blanketed the group. They decided, then, that it would be best to focus on the road ahead, but it was clear to see that no one would pass judgement on the vampire who walked amongst them. Unheard by any save Geralt, Regis exhaled softly when he turned his back on them, and Geralt saw the fatigue – and satisfaction – that lay heavy in his eyes as they locked gazes once again.

Geralt offered another small smile. He knew that feeling well, too – and as Regis could attest, he knew it better than anyone. Maybe that was what had given Regis the courage to speak of his past to the others. It was a fleeting thought, but the look in the vampire’s eyes told Geralt that those thoughts were not so far from the truth.

Strange bedfellows, Regis had coined them earlier.

Geralt almost chuckled.

He really couldn’t have put it better himself.

*****

They had left the Ina by late afternoon.

Regis rode by Geralt’s side at the fore as they mounted the horses and continued on their eastwards journey. They would not make Caed Dhu by any stretch of the imagination before nightfall, so rather they sought to find a place more suitable for camping along the roads and out of the immediate reach of the army should the soldiers turn around and search the forests.

It would still be some weeks yet until they came upon the druid’s circle, which Geralt had only mentioned in brief passing to the others when they had begun saddling their mounts. He was too tired to explain their new route, instead offering a gruff word that he would explain everything in greater detail after they had rested that evening. So it was that the fifth hour past dusk’s final light saw the company taking shelter from the night’s harsh winds in Angren’s lower valleys, and Geralt and Regis found themselves alone once more in the tent that they had put up moments earlier.

It had been a long day – too long – and Geralt’s wound had finally started to irritate him again.

The warmth of those fingers gently pressing to his bared skin and applying bandages was an otherwise welcome distraction from that irritation in that moment, and Geralt calmly regarded Regis as he worked.

“Didn’t have to do this, you know,” he said quietly, the first words he had spoken since their group had dismounted and had prepared their night’s lodgings that evening. “I’m a witcher. I heal almost as quickly as you do.” Except that he had not, and they both knew it. His leg, for one, still ached with a permanent bone-deep pain. But Geralt had no desire to bring that up.

Regis smiled and taped the gauze in place.

“I know,” he said just as quietly. “But I wanted to. Consider it a favour repaid for when you’d sought to do the same for me.” He pressed his palm against Geralt’s side as he had done before that morning. Geralt, too, as he had done before, rested his hand atop the vampire’s own. The night air was cold, but Geralt ignored it. He watched as Regis ran his gaze over the scars that marred the witcher's chest.

There was no light in the tent; all was dark. But Geralt now knew why Regis had never failed to find him so unerringly in the pitch blackness of night before. Looking at Regis now, he saw how his eyes glinted ever so faintly in the darkness, shining not unlike his own with a subtle cat-like light. It was so easy to miss, Geralt realised, that it was yet again just another way that Regis had managed to convince them all. He tilted his head to the side, considering this thoughtfully as he brought his free hand up to cup the vampire’s cheek. Regis lifted his gaze.

Geralt wasn’t sure what he had intended to say – was there anything else that _could_ be said? He knew everything now, as did the others. But even though Geralt himself wasn’t one for words, he saw the expression in Regis’ eyes and something in them made him want to try.

He did not get very far.

“Regis—”

“Please, Geralt,” Regis interrupted, his smile turning knowing. “We need not discuss it further.”

Geralt arched a brow and was powerless to stifle the tired chuckle that left him. That suited him just fine. His hand fell from Regis’ cheek and clasped instead at the furs that he was sitting on. He straightened himself up, groaning faintly against the aches in his leg and his chest, and he inspected the bandages that criss-crossed his torso.

_Nice work._

He watched as Regis stood up and walked to where their belongings had been lain across the ground. The barber-surgeon reached into his packs and pulled out a flask of water, from which he began to wash the remnants of the dried blood from his hands. If Geralt had had any further doubts, any lingering uncertainties over the possibility that Regis would fall back on his vows to drink blood, they were immediately quelled and laid to rest.

Part of him wondered if Dandelion should have been watching and taking note; he had had a hard time of it earlier that day trying to convince his friend that his fears were unfounded.

_“Geralt, he’s our friend and I’m just as grateful for his company as you are, but… what happens when he gets seriously hungry?”_

It had been just as Geralt had given the order to prepare the horses when Dandelion had pulled him aside and whispered those words fearfully into his ear. Geralt had looked at him, annoyed.

_“Funny. You didn’t complain this much when he saved our lives.”_

Dandelion had had the decency to look sheepish.

_“And I’m thankful for that. But—”_

_“You’re still going on about this? Listen to me, because there’s more to him than what you read in your damn books,”_ Geralt said sharply as he had turned on him. _“He stitched you up and didn’t say or do a damned thing, even when you were bleeding all over him. Remember the night when we first met? He had every opportunity to slake his thirst when we slept in his shack. But he didn’t.”_ Geralt sighed. _“Do you understand me, Dandelion?”_

He had turned away.

_“He’s not a threat.”_

_“Then what is he, Geralt?”_

Geralt’s reply was immediate.

_“He’s something more.”_

He had not elaborated, and Dandelion had left grumbling to himself – but to his credit he looked almost half convinced. Out of the corner of his eye Geralt had even seen the poet walk up to Regis and offer a crisp apology. Regis had merely smiled and waved it off; he did not blame him, Geralt had heard him say. It was yet another thing the witcher would continue to admire the vampire for. Some part of him had always wanted to be that selfless and forgiving.

The sound of the flask being capped and placed back down, followed by the near soundless footsteps approaching him once more, stirred Geralt from his reverie and he lifted his head to glance up at the man in question. He almost smiled then – it was so easy to think of Regis as simply a man. In fact, he was more human than most humans Geralt had known. He tasted the irony on his tongue at the very thought.

“How’re you feeling?” he asked after a moment.

Regis cast a thoughtful glance towards the entrance of the tent, where outside Cahir was keeping watch, and Milva and Dandelion had retired to their own tents to rest.

“Much better than I anticipated, after taking everything that has happened into account,” Regis eventually replied. “Thank you, Geralt.”

Geralt nodded. And that was that. He watched as Regis sat himself down next to him, and the pair took a moment to listen to the low wind that gusted through the valleys around them outside, interrupted occasionally by the metallic clanking of steel as Cahir sharpened his blade by the fire.

The companionable silence was peaceful, as was the warmth of their bodies so close together. 

Geralt tilted his head back, closed his eyes, and allowed his thoughts to wander. Thanks to the earlier frustrations of the day he found himself reflecting on the ragtag group that he had somehow managed to assemble around him. Almost without thinking, he soon found himself eliciting a brief, sharp laugh. Regis fixed him with a questioning gaze.

“Geralt?”

Geralt opened his eyes at the soft inquiry. He waved off Regis’ concern. 

“Can’t help but wonder… we must look a damn stupid sight. What are we doing, Regis? Every single one of us: an idiot bard who for some reason is still my best friend, a firebrand archer with an attitude sharper than a witcher’s blade, a Nilfgaardian who keeps insisting he’s not a fucking Nilfgaardian… and a higher vampire who’s almost pushing his fifth century.”

Regis chuckled.

“Let us not forget the witcher who leads us all,” he added. Geralt scoffed.

“Save it. There’s nothing you could say that I haven’t already said about myself.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Regis said calmly, drawing Geralt’s attention back to him. The vampire smiled and bared his fangs – something he seemed to be more comfortable in doing as of late. “But it wasn’t my intention to make fun of you, Geralt. You know why we choose to accompany you – why _I_ also choose to accompany you. I’ve said it myself before, in fact.”

Geralt nodded.

“Yeah. I know.”

Regis shifted faintly beside him, straightening his posture and emitting a quiet sigh as he did so.

“It is a rather intriguing camaraderie we’ve formed, there’s no denying that. But if ever there was a group more dedicated to helping you find your Cirilla, I sincerely doubt there would be anyone more suited for the job than us.”

“But…?” Geralt eyed the vampire beside him, feeling his smile widen faintly. Regis remained calm and composed, his eyes giving everything away that he could not say aloud as he reached out and traced a hand down Geralt’s jaw.

“But nothing,” Regis said. His touch was warm. Tender. Distracting. “Except to say, of course, that no matter how long our journey may be, and no matter where that path takes us, I know with absolute certainty that I wouldn’t rather be anywhere else. With anyone else.”

There was another question in those eyes, one that they had so commonly asked each other whether indirectly or not. Geralt gazed into them, knowing the answer already.

_Where do we go from here?_

He would show him.

He reached out and fisted a hand in Regis’ long hair as he weighed the next few moments carefully. He did not reply in words, yet his lips moved in silent gratitude as their mouths met. Heat enveloped them as their arms moved and hands quickly slid over loosened clothing, and it was something they both needed now more than ever – perhaps even more so than before.

It seemed easier to give in, now that nothing was left between them. So give in they did.

Rain fell gently outside as skin was bared and bodies moved; slow, impassioned groans passed fervently between them, their mouths never parting as they drew close and into each other with each thrust, sway and roll of their hips as they fell back. It was gentle, it was fierce, and it was enough – it was real. Adrenaline pulsed, desire flared, and through the heavy beating of their hearts and the taste and scent of herbs, spices and sex Geralt found what he had long been looking for.

He could admit that to himself now, at long last. Even knowing what Regis was, and even through the desperate clash of fangs, teeth and tongue, he had never felt more alive. And when he came, gazing up into pleasure-glazed obsidian eyes and arching against the passion that coiled into and around him, he knew that he had never once been alone in that feeling. He thought deeply on that when he had at last collapsed spent against the furs, body slicked with sweat and the remnants of arousal tingling in his blood as warm lips mapped his chest, his neck, and finally his mouth once again.

When the rain had eventually ceased and the moon had risen high and the first stirrings of sleep tugged at the corners of his mind, Geralt ran his hands along Regis’ slender frame, trailing his fingers against each dip and each curve of muscle and skin as the vampire lazed atop him, his head resting against Geralt’s shoulder. Geralt wasn’t sure if Regis was sleeping, or indeed if he needed to sleep the way humans did – but his eyes were closed and for all intents and purposes he looked utterly at peace. The steady rise and fall of his chest against the witcher’s own was a soothing remedy for the thoughts and doubts of their future path that Geralt still carried in his mind. 

Geralt carded his fingers idly through grey hair, and with his free hand he tightened his hold around his lover’s waist. Maybe it was this trust he felt that made him think that, for the first time since starting on this journey, fate would be kind to him and they would not only all reach the end, but they would also walk away from it all relatively unscathed. He did not trust in fate, but given how everything that had happened – every stretch of his journey, every step, every conversation, every action – had surely played some hand in bringing him to Regis like this right here, right now… he was willing to give it a try. He would extend that trust and see where it took him.

Geralt glanced back down at Regis, and a small smile tugged at his mouth. In the darkness he saw that same smile echoed on Regis’ own pale lips. Geralt ceased running his hands through soft grey locks in favour of pressing a single, slow kiss to the man’s brow.

For the first time he felt confidence and a clear focus on what it was that he must do, and it was ironic that he had a higher vampire to thank for it. But in the end, however, it did not really matter what he was and what they were. Because Geralt knew that this was something more.

He thought on that and that certainty he felt – that blinding, aching certainty – when he finally did sleep with his body entwined with Regis’ own. 

Fate may indeed be kind to him, after all. 


	14. Epilogue

Fate was not kind.

Fate, as it turned out, was cold and cruel and hard. Geralt learned that with excruciating agony in the deepest, darkest depths of Stygga Castle.

For a moment, just one moment as he ran through blood-slicked halls with his sword drawn and his anger guiding his hand, he thought back on the entirety of their eastwards journey and their brief respite in Toussaint and wondered where it had all gone so horribly wrong. The battle on the bridge by the Yaruga had likely been the first instance, he mused. That fateful day when he and Cahir had led the charge of Lyrians and Rivians under Queen Meve herself against the horde of Nilfgaardian soldiers who had blocked their path.

They had only won that battle because they simply _had_ to make it across that bridge – Milva’s life and the life of her unborn child had depended on it. As it had turned out, and as they had discovered only a short while prior to the battle, she had been pregnant for much of the course of their journey. That discovery had shed some light on her frequent spells of illness that she had suffered along the road, but it did nothing in the face of the realisation that the fight, the stress and the injuries she had received had ultimately forced her to miscarry.

She had never fully recovered from the ordeal, and even when their path had eventually taken them to the sun-kissed vineyards that lined Toussaint’s borders, she had never fully been the same again.

And now she lay there, on the cold and unforgiving cobbled stone ground of Stygga Castle’s halls.

Dead.

Geralt had expected many things. He had been willing, _wanting,_ even, to lay his life on the line if it meant that the rest of them got out safely. But nothing could have ever prepared him for this. The witcher had found where Ciri and Yennefer had been held in the end, but at what cost? They were so near, so close – both of them were in Vilgefortz’s clutches with only these thick castle walls separating them from Geralt, and yet he could not focus on that bitter, hollow victory in the midst of the aching, pounding anger that coursed in his blood.

Milva was dead, struck in the chest by a rogue archer's arrow.

The cost had been too damn high from the very start. He had walked right into hell and they had followed him without question – Milva, Cahir, the bandit girl Angoulême… and Regis.

Geralt knew that just as Milva had been the first, she would most certainly not be the last. He knew that the very second he had stormed the castle with his companions in tow. He knew that the very second he had seen that arrow pierce Milva's heart. Her blood and theirs would always stain his hands. He decided, then, that if he could have one more last wish, it would be to turn back time so that none of this had ever happened. By all the gods he never believed in, he would have started praying now if it meant that his final, desperate plea would be granted.

It hurt.

A man leapt out at him from the darkness, one of Vilgefortz’s soldiers. He died before his sword could even be drawn. Geralt panted, his steps thundering down into the echoing abyss that consumed him. Blood splattered his hands. It splattered the walls. It splattered everything.

As he ran, his eyes searched the shadows. In all the confusion when they had first entered the castle grounds, the company had quickly realised that they were outnumbered and overwhelmed. Regis had turned to Geralt in that moment, his usually calm, black eyes brimming with a slow-burning rage, and as they both shared that solemn, angered glance Geralt knew that they would not find Ciri or Yennefer like this.

So he had let Regis go. Regis, who had disappeared into a mist and had flown through the halls. Geralt had seen that rage burn ever brighter in the vampire’s eyes as he did and the witcher cursed himself. He did not want to leave Regis alone – not when he knew that he would lose everything and everyone else – but the necessity of the situation called for it. Geralt only hoped…

No. He would not think that. He knew that he should not be concerned for the vampire. He had seen firsthand, after all, how Regis had near-effortlessly gotten them safely into the castle's halls; the witcher recalled vividly how Regis had persuaded the watchmen to open the gate and escort them through with nothing but a single look into their eyes, which grew glazed, absent and empty as they complied wordlessly to his request.

No. Geralt would not worry. He would not feel concern. There had already been enough death, enough bloodshed. Milva’s memory could not be sullied in such a way. No one else would die here tonight that did not deserve it; they _could not._

He almost laughed.

He should have known.

 _He_ _should have known._

If he strained his ears to hear above the screams and the metallic clash and clang of steel on steel, he knew he would hear the last desperate, gasping breaths of Cahir as he was run through whilst defending the young woman he had sworn to protect. Cahir Mawr Dyffryn aep Ceallach, the Nilfgaardian who so often claimed that he was not a Nilfgaardian, and who in the very end had remained a steadfast ally to the witcher – perhaps even a friend.

It hurt.

If he paused a moment longer, stopping to brace against the heavy blow directed at his head from the next man who rushed forwards to defend his fallen comrade, Geralt knew that if he dared to close his eyes it would be to see the haunting image of Angoulême curled up on the ground, bleeding out into the lap of the girl who held her. Ciri would gaze at her with empty eyes, eyes that reflected in them the lifelessness of Angoulême’s own.

He did not know how he knew this, but what he _did_ know was that he knew it with the utmost certainty. 

It hurt.

By all the fucking gods it _hurt._

He went deeper, running down spiralling staircases into the pits of hell.

Toussaint had been perfect. Toussaint had been calm, peaceful. He looked back on it now and felt that he should have stayed there – they _all_ should have stayed there. In that land where food and wine circulated in equal measure, they had almost been happy. Geralt swung his sword and deflected another blow; he grit his teeth and sliced through armour. The soldiers died by his hand, and he did not care. He was angry. It consumed him until it was all that he felt.

The screams guided him further down, and he did not even bother to hide his relief when a swift-moving shadow suddenly entered his vision. Regis materialised in full, and because he was angry, because he was tired and because he wanted nothing more than to find Ciri, find Yennefer and find Vilgefortz so that he could wring his hands around his neck, Geralt did not even react when he saw the glistening droplets of blood that smeared over Regis’ tunic, hands and mouth and dripped down his chin.

If this was any other time and any other place, Geralt would have wanted answers. But one look into the vampire's eyes, however, laid to rest any question that Geralt might have voiced in that instant: Regis had not partaken of the blood that he had spilled. He remained calm, composed, clear-headed; everything that he would not be if he had fallen back on his vows to abstain. Geralt knew the tell-tale signs of a vampire's bloodlust, and though there was an undeniable hunger in those sharp, black eyes – a deep, dark hunger the likes that Geralt had never seen before – the witcher believed him. 

Geralt turned his head and continued to run. He forced those thoughts from his mind. There was too much at stake, and too much he had to lose.

“Did you find her?” he asked, his voice remarkably level and remarkably clear as his steps echoed noisily in that blood-soaked place. He did not specify who – there was no need. Ciri would find him. She always did and she always had. But Yennefer was another matter entirely - Yennefer, who even now remained so difficult to define. She had slipped so far away from him that the memory of her now was like sand through his fingers; whatever fate had tied them together had been severed long ago. He did not know where she was, and some small, private part of him felt that maybe that was for the best. 

“I did. This way.” Regis reached out and tugged on Geralt’s arm, guiding him further down. His hold was strong, secure, and burned with a warmth that was almost blistering in that frigid, cold place; it kept Geralt focused. It kept the anger at the forefront of his mind. He nodded, following Regis as the vampire urged them to the rightmost corridor where they came upon a fork in the castle’s stairs.

Geralt felt magic tingle and pulse in the air. His medallion was going wild, trembling at his breast as it reacted violently. His heart thudded a maddening rhythm in his chest. It was something else to focus on in that moment. It was something else to keep fuelling his anger. 

“Geralt,” Regis said quietly as they ran, turning corner after corner and descending ever further downwards, “the others…”

He could not finish. Geralt heard the thinly-veiled pain in the vampire’s voice.

_It hurt._

“I know.” He saw Regis nod once, his expression grim. Magic crackled and throbbed in the air around them once more – they were drawing closer. Geralt felt the pain rocket through his leg; Vilgefortz was not far now. And if he focused, he could hear one scream rising high above all the rest – a familiar feminine, low-pitched cry that tore at memories he had all but forgotten. He almost smelled the lilac and gooseberries.

It would be entirely up to fate who they stumbled upon first in this hell. And fate, he knew, was not kind. Fate, he reminded himself, was cold, and cruel, and hard.

And fate decided that it would indeed be Yennefer they chanced upon in the end. 

For all the times that Geralt had imagined how this reunion would go, he never imagined it would be quite like this.

The corridor opened out into a high-ceilinged vault, one that was bordered on all sides by stone pillars and iron cages. Geralt smelled the acrid stench of blood, rot, metal and all manner of other things he did not want to guess at naming; it was painfully clear what this part of the castle had been used for. 

They had found the dungeons. And there, at the very end of the cavernous hall, one of the cells was open and four figures were dragging something kicking and screaming out of it.

He had never imagined how Yennefer would look at him, violet eyes blazing as he cut her bonds whilst the men staggered off, yelling and trembling in terror in the face of the sorceress’ and witcher's wrath. He had never imagined how she would stand there, magic licking at her fingertips, her black curls in disarray and her ivory skin battered and bruised as she cursed them and turned to face him. He had never imagined how the scent of lilac and gooseberries would turn his stomach as it mixed with the scent of blood and death.

He had never imagined how foreign he would feel when she suddenly wrapped her arms around him and whispered in his ear: _“I knew you would come for me…”_

And he had never imagined that all the while he would freeze, unable to think, unable to react save for placing a hand lightly on her back and simply standing there as she held onto him.

He looked up, feeling an emptiness steadily grow and settle inside of him, burrowing deeply into his chest. He saw black eyes watching him from across the hall. He saw something he did not like in Regis’ gaze. He knew what it was: it was understanding. The solemn, saddened kind which no words or actions could ease. It was the gaze of a man who knew that in the face of _this_ , he was lost. 

Geralt did not like it. Regis offered him a thin, pained smile. He knew. He didn’t like it either.

He walked silently upon the bloodied cobbled ground, and paused only when he had reached level with Geralt. He faced the opposite wall, careful to tear away his gaze. Their shoulders almost touched.

“We should keep moving,” he said quietly. Geralt nodded. Yennefer shifted in his hold and stirred. She looked up, and from the crown of raven locks that wreathed her face he saw the wariness in her gaze; she had not noticed Regis until now, that was clear.

And now that she saw this man standing beside the witcher, it was also just as clear that Geralt’s attention had wavered; she must have sensed the hesitation in his limbs, and the witcher saw something unreadable stir in the violet depths of her irises. She remained quiet, however, and pulled away.

Yennefer regarded them both coolly. Then she turned to the vampire.

“Yes, we should,” she said, her voice betraying nothing, even as she must have seen how Geralt’s arms dropped loosely to his sides and how Regis only briefly tilted his head in her direction. “We must find Ciri.” Magic crackled at her fingertips once more. “And Vilgefortz.”

*****

_“What are you thinking, Geralt?”_

Geralt recalled that day under the sun-kissed skies of Toussaint, where the streets of Beauclair were bustling with life, laughter and music. No man, woman or child gazed with fearful eyes at the world around them; they were a lifetime away, in another place, in another time – in a land that war seemingly could not touch.

_“Everything. And nothing.”_

They had been standing side by side, pausing to take in the rich sights, sounds and smells of the markets. Their companions had since ventured elsewhere: Cahir had taken it upon himself to visit the tourneys, and Milva had found companionship with a certain Baron de Trastamara, a noble who had shared her passions for archery and hunting; they had met the previous night in the halls of the palace, when Anna Henrietta had invited them to a feast. Angoulême, whom the company had encountered on their journey towards the druid’s circle that lifetime ago, took pleasure in exploring the castle grounds and speaking with the servants who lived there, learning all there was to learn from the secrets that were whispered back and forth by talkative chambermaids. Dandelion, too, had found respite in the duchess’s halls, surprising even Geralt when he had revealed that the duchess herself was an old flame – and as Dandelion’s presence had proven – one such flame whose passions could be reignited. The poet now barely strayed a step from her side.

It seemed too good to be true. It seemed too peaceful, too easy to take it all in and forget. And even though Geralt had spent a long time wanting to forget the many unwanted thoughts and feelings that still so often plagued his mind, he knew that to do so now would be to lose sight of himself and his goal. Ciri was still out there, as was Yennefer. Geralt had sighed as he had leant his hands upon the railings and gazed across the bridge towards the cerulean lakes and the rolling green hills, and he had felt Regis’ eyes on him all the while.

The vampire had smiled faintly and nodded. He knew, as he so often did, what Geralt said without words. Here, they were almost happy. Here, everything and nothing happened, and it was safe.

And here they were given a luxury that none of them could afford.

Yet despite that, despite it all, Geralt still felt with a violent, blinding certainty that they should have stayed there.

That feeling only increased tenfold when Vilgefortz found them in the end.

The pain in his leg gave away his presence first; Geralt felt the old injury flare anew, and the sharp ache of it tore his mind from the hazed memories of warm sun and clear blue skies. He grit his teeth against the agony as they stopped in the corridors upon leaving the dungeons behind them. He felt two pairs of eyes on him, and through that pain he could only barely register the weight of their gazes.

But he did not pay them any mind; his attention was focused straight ahead and on the man who calmly watched them from beneath the crumbling ruins of a stone archway.

A smile was on his lips, pleasant and benign. One eye gazed at them calculatingly, appreciatively. The other glinted in the torchlight and rocked unnaturally in its socket – a gruesome mockery of the eye that he had lost. Geralt felt magic pulse in the air once more; deep, dark and powerful. For a moment, just one moment, the sounds of battle in the halls around them ceased.

For a moment, just one moment, all thoughts of Ciri and the friends he had lost fled his mind, and everything narrowed down to this one man who had been the cause of it all.

For a moment, just one moment, Geralt felt nothing but anger... and fear.

He wished they had stayed in Toussaint.

He lifted his hand and touched the hilt of his steel sword. He was about to open his mouth to speak when he was stopped. A warm hand enclosed around his own.

“No, Geralt,” Regis said quietly, firmly, no sign of hesitation in his voice. “Allow me. Take Yennefer and run. Find your Cirilla.”

Geralt narrowed his eyes.

“Regis—”

“I insist.” Regis’ words held such a sharp intensity to them that Geralt grew still; he had never used such a tone before. The vampire’s black eyes seemed to flash. The blood glistened from his face and his clothes. There was rage simmering just beneath the surface of his calm composure; Geralt felt it just as he felt the strength in the vampire’s grip as he continued to hold the witcher back.

He knew what Regis intended. And he would be damned if he let him.

Regis tilted his head slightly, keeping Vilgefortz well in sight even as his eyes held Geralt’s. Yennefer watched silently, understanding dawning in her gaze. She almost looked like she pitied them both. Geralt did not like it. He hated it.

“Do you remember what you told me in Toussaint?” Regis asked softly, the corner of his bloodied lips twitching into a smile. Geralt nodded. He remembered.

_We should have stayed there._

Regis’ hand fell away and the vampire, looking satisfied, took a step forwards. Geralt felt everything he did not want to in that moment, just as he wanted to say everything that he could not. But he was saved the trouble, in the end.

He saw movement from the corner of his eyes. As did Regis, and as did Yennefer. With a yell Geralt grit his teeth, growled, and swung his sword down and greeted their foe head on just as a searing heat enveloped the walls. It appeared that even Vilgefortz’s patience had limits. Smoke billowed into the air, filling the halls with its pungent stench, and fire burned at the sorcerer’s fingertips.

Geralt had no recollection of the battle that followed; he would look back on this moment and remember only that it was chaos. Fire licked at the stones around them, and Yennefer’s magic was failing against the overpowering control that Vilgefortz maintained. The witcher remembered the piercing laughter and the taunts that Vilgefortz gleefully yelled at them above the noise and the death. He knew it would haunt him.

Geralt would also remember time and time again how he had tried to strike and connect steel with flesh, but Vilgefortz proved, once again, that he was well-prepared. He parried each blow of Geralt’s sword with his staff, and the witcher was forced to defend against the shattering weight of the strikes that the mage rained down upon him. His leg seared with pain. He heard Yennefer’s cries as her spells waned; the shields she had set up flickered and grew faint. The columns and archways around them crumbled and fell as blades and magic connected with the stonework, pulverising them into ash. He saw Regis move quickly, fangs extended in a truly monstrous snarl. He was livid. He was enraged. The scent of blood had fuelled him; he was violent and vengeful and Geralt knew all too late what would happen.

He tried to stop him.

“Regis, be careful!” Geralt heard himself yell over the maelstrom. Panic gripped him; it clutched down, seized his heart and _squeezed_. He saw the look those black eyes gave him just as Regis rematerialised and struck down from above, in clear view of Vilgefortz’s neck.

“I didn’t come here to be careful, Geralt!”

Those eyes simply told him one thing: _Flee._

Geralt did not. But he wished he had. He wished they both had.

_We should have stayed in Toussaint._

It would have been better. It would have been safer.

It would have meant that some deep, desperate, hidden part of Geralt didn’t die that day when Vilgefortz reached out and enveloped the vampire in an inferno of flame.

*****

_“It wouldn’t be so simple going after someone like you, would it?”_

He remembered the smile those words had awarded him, and he remembered the answer that Regis had given.

_“No. It wouldn’t.”_

Geralt wondered if he had ever believed it. He wondered if even Regis had believed it. He wondered a lot of things as he knelt there, gazing at the formless void of crimson that pooled across the ground, splattering the stone by his weary, aching limbs.

There were many things he felt in that moment, and a great deal more that he never wanted to feel. One of them was the irony, perhaps, that the only thing that now remained of the vampire was blood the same colour as any human’s. Irony, like fate, was also cold and cruel and hard. 

But Geralt remembered the screams most of all. 

They still echoed in his ears; there was great pain in those tortured cries. Geralt had heard many screams before in his life belonging to both monsters and men, but nothing had ever compared or would ever compare to those that Vilgefortz had pulled from Regis’ throat.

He remembered the fire that had engulfed the vampire, even as hands pulled at Geralt and brought him to the ground. Out of instinct, Geralt had slammed his hand into the stone and mustered all the energy he could into shielding him and Yennefer both with a Sign. It felt as if a shockwave tore throughout the halls; those haunting screams climbed higher and higher into such a piercing crescendo that the glass windows above cracked and shattered.

He had felt the glass fall around them both like ash, glancing harmlessly off of their combined shields, Quen and magical alike.

And then… the silence.

Nothing but silence.

He continued to gaze at the blood on the stone.

He felt many things in that moment, as well as feeling nothing – a great, unsettling weight of nothingness that settled deep in his chest; a barren emptiness such that he had never felt before. Another irony, he found, was that this nothing hurt more than anything else.

He decided, then, that he would never wish to feel nothing ever again.

He heard movement beside him. He felt a cool hand rest at his shoulder. He smelled lilac and gooseberries and remembered memories that he had long since stopped chasing – everything that wasn’t nothing. He sighed and wished that instead of _nothing_ he felt _something_.

“We would have died if not for him.” There was a long silence, one that felt even more oppressive now that it was all that Geralt could focus on. He did not know if Yennefer’s words were intended to comfort him. Somehow he felt that even she did not know, herself.

Her hand fell away, and Geralt let her rest her head on his shoulder. Black locks curled against his cheek. He did not look at her.

“Who was he, Geralt?” Yennefer asked quietly. Then, hesitantly, tentatively: “Was he human?”

Geralt closed his eyes.

His mind wandered as images of Toussaint flashed before him once again. As the once-familiar scent of lilac and gooseberries enveloped him, he remembered what he had said to Regis that night – the night that Regis himself had reminded him of shortly before Vilgefortz had ended it all.

It would have been funny how he thought on it now, if this was any other place, any other time. But it wasn’t, and now those memories hurt as much as that nothingness did.

 _“I don’t know what'll happen when I see Yen again,”_ Geralt had said that night, at long last telling Regis what he could not tell him earlier that day when they had stood side by side overlooking Beauclair. _“I don't know if I can do this. I don't even know if what I felt for her was real.”_

Regis had watched him with that patient gaze, his hand reaching up to brush loose white locks away from Geralt’s face. Maybe it had been the blissful post-coital haze that had encouraged Geralt to suddenly speak of it in that moment, there in that bedroom that overlooked the palace grounds, the moon high in the sky and the world blanketed in darkness as they lay together naked and sated on silk sheets. But maybe, as they both knew was more likely, it had been necessity.

Because, as Geralt had mentioned once before that night in that cave a lifetime ago, much of what had bound he and Yennefer together had been the djinn’s doing, back when he had wished for something that he did not truly understand. And it was ironic, in its cold, cruel and hard way, that he still hadn’t truly _understood_ until he had first gazed deeply into intelligent black eyes and had at long last found everything.

He had, at long last, found out what it meant to feel something _real._

He remembered the smile on Regis’ lips: the pained, understanding smile. Because he knew what this meant, Geralt telling him this.

_“And what about now? If you could have made that choice again, what would you have done, Geralt?”_

Geralt had looked at him.

_“Chosen someone else.”_

_You._

Because they both knew that in the end, Geralt would have no choice but to find her. They both knew that in the end, whatever fate had ensnared itself around Geralt and manipulated him like a puppet's strings would inevitably drag him back into Yennefer's waiting arms. They both knew that this... that _they_ … could not last. Whatever _this_ had been was a teasing glimpse into a life that neither deserved. Because they were too similar, the both of them, despite the differences – and as Regis himself had pointed out once, long ago, hope was a dangerous thing for someone like him, like _them,_ to have.

Geralt still remembered the heavy look in the vampire's eyes. He still remembered the bitter taste of the kiss that followed. He still remembered and longed for what he wanted but could no longer have.

In truth, that night had been the end of it all, long before Stygga Castle, long before Vilgefortz, and long before Regis had made that choice to see Geralt and Yennefer flee whilst they still could. It had been what they had promised each other, after all. 

_“I shall stand by you, Geralt. Whatever happens, I shall do my utmost to see you both safe.”_

_“And what about after? If there is an after?”_

_“I don't know. I truly don't know.”_

Geralt sighed again. He weighed Yennefer’s questions carefully.

_“Who was he, Geralt? Was he human?”_

No.

He had always been something more.

Yennefer pulled back slightly when Geralt moved; he reached up to his neck and unfastened something that hung there. The sorceress was quiet as she watched, her violet eyes never blinking.

When he had finished, Geralt slowly stood.

“The epitome of humanity.” He did not explain. He did not need to. He felt Yennefer’s eyes on him all the while as he walked over to Vilgefortz’s remains; the sorcerer was bloodied, mutilated, gasping and panting for air. Geralt had managed to mortally wound him in those last few moments after the battle, and the witcher gazed calmly down at him as his foe choked on lifeblood and dared smile a bloodied, satisfied smile.

Geralt drew his silver sword and hung it loosely by his side. He almost saw the question in Vilgefortz’s mismatched eyes. Whatever he was going to ask, Geralt only had one answer to give.

_Both are for monsters._

He tightened his grip on the hilt and plunged it down.

Not a word was said when he pulled away, Geralt not bothering to wipe his blade clean of the blood it had spilled. All he offered was a silent nod for Yennefer to follow him, and the sorceress did so. They left the crumbling ruins of Stygga Castle together, at long last having caught up to Ciri in the maze of the castle’s halls as they did.

Not a word was said about what had been lost and what had been left behind, even as the sun began to slowly rise to mark the onset of the new day.

*****

The crumbling ruins of Stygga Castle were a melancholy sight on the mountain range as the morning sun began its slow ascent behind the battered remnants of its bastions. Its oppressive halls echoed with the sounds of silence as the crisp dawn's chill stirred fog through its winding passages. Through the shattered windows, the sun's rays flickered and spread in mismatched beams of light as a lone raven spread its wings and alighted itself upon the jagged cuts of stained glass.

It cawed and its voice echoed within the chambers like a mournful lament. 

The raven remained there for some time, twisting its head back and forth and darting its roaming eyes to and fro. If anyone were to witness it, they might have thought that it was observing; watching and waiting for something that only it could see.

Then, suddenly, the raven cawed once more and flew off, leaving the castle to its silence and its ruins yet again.

Through the shattered windows that the raven had since vacated, the dawn's rays fell upon a stretch of stone pillars that were coated in a crimson pool of remains. The blood marred its rough surface, and a pained sigh echoed sharply around the halls. In the darkness that the sun still had not yet touched, a figure remained, hunched over in agony.

A trembling hand gripped at the ground and dug in fingers that were too weak to grasp for any support; flesh and bone began to mend and heal but still too slowly, still not quickly enough. But it did not matter. A small, tender smile formed on blood-splattered lips despite the pain. Bloodshot black eyes closed as that hand clutched tightly at the object that lay just within reach. With the last of his strength, the figure pulled that item closer until he pressed it against his still-healing heart. 

The sun's rays shifted and ghosted across the cavernous halls, chasing away the shadows and the fog. And there, as those golden beams danced upon the grey haired figure of the half-dead man who clutched that item to his breast, the light reflected through his shaking grip a lone medallion shaped in the head of a wolf. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally done! I just want to thank everyone again for the lovely comments and feedback I've received throughout this, as well as the kudos and bookmarks :) It means a lot to me and I really appreciate it! Thank you so much for reading, and I hope that you enjoyed it! :)


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